University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


CASSIDY  FAMILY  PAPERS 


Rhymes  of  a 
Red  Cross  Man 


BY 

ROBERT  W.  SERVICE 

Author  of  **The  Spell  of  the  Yukon,"  "The 

Ballads  of  a  Cheechako,"  ^'Rhymes 

of  a  Rolling  Stone,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

BARSE  &  HOPKINS 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1916, 

by 

BARSE  &  HOPKINS 


XTo  tbe  /Remor^  ot 

MY  BROTHER, 
LIEUTENANT  ALBERT  SERVICE 

CANADIAN  INFANTRY 
KILLED  IN  ACTION,  FRANCE 

August,  1916. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Foreword 7 

The  Call 9 

The  Fool ii 

The  Volunteer 14 

The  Convalescent 16 

The  Man  from  Athabaska 18 

The  Red  Retreat 24 

The  Haggis  of  Private  McPhee       ...  29 

The  Lark 37 

The  Odyssey  of  'Erbert  Iggins    .      .      .     .  39 

A  Song  of  Winter  Weather 45 

TipPERARY  Days 47 

Fleurette 50 

Funk .55 

Our  Hero 57 

My  Mate 59 

Milking  Time 63 

Young  Fellow^  My  Lad 67 

A  Song  of  the  Sandbags 70 

On  the  Wire 74 

Bill's  Grave 78 

Jean  Desprez 82 

Going  Home 90 

Cocotte 92 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

My  Bay'nit 95 

Carry  On! 97 

Over  the  Parapet 100 

The  Ballad  of  Soulful  Sam   .     .     .      .  •    .  104 

Only  a  Boche 109 

Pilgrims 114 

My  Prisoner 116 

Tri-colour 120 

A  Pot  of  Tea 122 

The  Revelation 124 

Grand-pere 128 

Son 130 

The  Black  Dudeen 133 

The  Little  Piou-piou 137 

Bill  the  Bomber  .......      .     .  139 

The  Whistle  of  Sandy  McGraw     .      .      .145 

The  Stretcher-Bearer 151 

Wounded 153 

Faith 159 

The  Coward 160 

Missis  Moriarty's  Boy 164 

My  Foe 166 

My  Job .      .  171 

The  Song  of  the  Pacifist 173 

The  Twins 176 

The  Song  of  the  Soldier-born 177 

Afternoon  Tea 181 

The  Mourners 188 

L'Envoi 190 


FOREWORD 

Fve  tinkered  at  my  bits  of  rhymes 

In  weary,  woeful,  waiting  times; 

In  doleful  hours  of  battle-din, 

Ere  yet  they  brought  the  wounded  in; 

Through  vigils  of  the  fateful  night. 

In  lousy  barns  by  candle-light; 

In  dug-outs,  sagging  and  ajlood, 

On  stretchers  stiff  and  bleared  with  blood; 

By  ragged  grove,  by  ruined  road, 

By  hearths  accurst  where  Love  abode; 

By  broken  altars,  blackened  shrines 

Fve  tinkered  at  my  bits  of  rhymes. 

Fve  solaced  me  with  scraps  of  song 
The  desolated  ways  along: 
Through  sickly  fields  all  shrapnel-sown, 
And  meadows  reaped  by  death  alone; 
By  blazing  cross  and  splintered  spire, 
By  headless  Virgin  in  the  mire; 
By  gardens  gashed  amid  their  bloom, 
By  gutted  grave,  by  shattered  tomb; 
Beside  the  dying  and  the  dead, 

7 


FOREWORD 

Where  rocket  green  and  rocket  red, 
In  trembling  pools  of  poising  light, 
With  flowers  of  flame  festoon  the  night. 
Ah  me!  by  what  dark  ways  of  wrong 
Pve  cheered  my  heart  with  scraps  of  song. 

So  here's  my  sheaf  of  war-won  verse, 
And  some  is  bad,  and  some  is  worse. 
And  if  at  times  I  curse  a  bit. 
You  needn't  read  that  part  of  it; 
For  through  it  all  like  horror  runs 
The  red  resentment  of  the  guns. 
And  you  yourself  would  mutter  when 
You  took  the  things  that  once  were  men 
And  sped  them  through  that  zone  of  hate 
To  where  the  dripping  surgeons  wait; 
And  wonder  too  if  in  God's  sight 
War  ever,  ever  can  be  right. 

Yet  may  it  not  be,  crime  and  war 
But  effort  misdirected  are? 
And  if  there's  good  in  war  and  crime, 
There  may  be  in  my  bits  of  rhyme, 
My  songs  from  out  the  slaughter  mill: 
So  take  or  leave  them  as  you  will. 


8 


THE  CALL 

{France,  August  first,  19 14) 

Far  and  near,  high  and  clear, 

Hark  to  the  call  of  War! 
Over  the  gorse  and  the  golden  dells, 
Ringing  and  swinging  of  clamorous  bellsj 
Praying  and  saying  of  wild  farewells : 

War!     War!     War! 

High  and  low,  all  must  go: 
Hark  to  the  shout  of  War ! 

Leave  to  the  women  the  harvest  yield; 

Gird  ye,  men,   for  the  sinister  field; 

A  sabre  instead  of  a  scythe  to  wield: 
War!     Red  War! 

Rich  and  poor,  lord  and  boor, 
Hark  to  the  blast  of  War ! 
Tinker  and  tailor  and  millionaire. 
Actor  in  triumph  and  priest  in  prayer, 
9 


THE  CALL 

Comrades  now  in  the  hell  out  there, 
Sweep  to  the  fire  of  War ! 

Prince  and  page,  sot  and  sage, 

Hark  to  the  roar  of  War ! 
Poet,  professor  and  circus  clown, 
Chimney-sweeper  and  fop  o'  the  town, 
Into  the  pot  and  be  melted  down: 

Into  the  pot  of  War ! 

Women  all,  hear  the  call, 

The  pitiless  call  of  War! 
Look  your  last  on  your  dearest  ones. 
Brothers  and  husbands,  fathers,  sons: 
Swift  they  go  to  the  ravenous  guns, 

The  gluttonous  guns  of  War. 

Everywhere  thrill  the  air 

The  maniac  bells  of  War. 
There  will  be  little  of  sleeping  to-night; 
There  will  be  wailing  and  weeping  to-night; 
Death^s  red  sickle  is  reaping  to-night : 

War!     War!     War! 


10 


THE  FOOL 

"  But  it  Isn't  playing  the  game,"  he  said, 

And  he  slammed  his  books  away; 

"  The  Latin  and  Greek  IVe  got  in  my  head 

Will  do  for  a  duller  day." 

"  Rubbish!  "  I  cried;  "  The  bugle's  call 

Isn't  for  lads  from  school." 

D'ye  think  he'd  listen?     Oh,  not  at  all: 

So  I  called  him  a  fool,  a  fool. 

Now  there's  his  dog  by  his  empty  bed, 

And  the  flute  he  used  to  play. 

And  his  favourite  bat  .  .  .  but  Dick  he's  dead, 

Somewhere  in  France,  they  say: 

Dick  with  his  rapture  of  song  and  sun, 

Dick  of  the  yellow  hair, 

Dicky  whose  life  had  but  begun. 

Carrion-cold  out  there. 

Look  at  his  prizes  all  in  a  row: 
Surely  a  hint  of  fame. 
Now  he's  finished  with, —  nothing  to  show: 

II 


THE  FOOL 

Doesn't  It  seem  a  shame? 

Look  from  the  window!     All  you  see 

Was  to  be  his  one  day: 

Forest  and  furrow,  lawn  and  lea, 

And  he  goes  and  chucks  it  away. 

Chucks  It  away  to  die  In  the  dark: 

Somebody  saw  him  fall, 

Part  of  him  mud,  part  of  him  blood, 

The  rest  of  him  —  not  at  all. 

And  yet  I'll  bet  he  was  never  afraid, 

And  he  went  as  the  best  of  'em  go. 

For  his  hand  was  clenched  on  his  broken  blade. 

And  his  face  was  turned  to  the  foe. 

And  I  called  him  a  fool  ...  oh  how  blind 

was  I ! 
And  the  cup  of  my  grief's  abrim. 
Will  Glory  o'  England  ever  die 
So  long  as  we've  lads  like  him? 
So  long  as  we've  fond  and  fearless  fools. 
Who,  spurning  fortune  and  fame, 
Turn  out  with  the  rallying  cry  of  their  schools, 
Just  bent  on  playing  the  game. 


12 


THE  FOOL 

A  fool !     Ah  no !     He  was  more  than  wise. 

His  was  the  proudest  part. 

He  died  with  the  glory  of  faith  in  his  eyes, 

And  the  glory  of  love  in  his  heart. 

And  though  there's  never  a  grave  to  tell, 

Nor  a  cross  to  mark  his  fall. 

Thank  God!  we  know  that  he  **  batted  well" 

In  the  last  great  Game  of  all. 


13 


THE  VOLUNTEER 

Sez  I:     My  Country  calls?     Well,  let  it  call. 

I  grins  perlltely  and  declines  wiv  thanks. 

Go,  let  'em  plaster  every  blighted  wall, 

'Ere's  one  they  don't  stampede  into  the  ranks. 

iThem  politicians  with  their  greasy  ways; 

Them  empire-grabbers  —  fight  for  'em?     No 
fear! 

I've  seen  this  mess  a-comin'  from  the  days 

Of  Algyserious  and  Aggydear: 

I've  felt  me  passion  rise  and  swell, 

But  .  .  .  wot  the 'ell.  Bill?    Wot  the 'ell? 

Sez  I:     My  Country?     Mine?     I  likes  their 

cheek. 
Me  mud-bespattered  by  the  cars  they  drive, 
Wot  makes  my  measly  thirty  bob  a  week, 
And  sweats  red  blood  to  keep  meself  alive ! 
Fight  for  the  right  to  slave  that  they  may  spend. 
Them  in  their  mansions,  me  'ere  in  my  slum? 
No,  let  'em  fight  wot's  something  to  defend: 

14 


THE  VOLUNTEER 

But  me,  IVe  nothin' — let  the  Kaiser  come. 
And  so  I  cusses  'ard  and  well, 
But  .  •  .  wotthe 'ell,  Bill?     Wot  the 'ell? 

Sez  I:     If  they  would  do  the  decent  thing, 
And  shield  the  missis  and  the  little  'uns. 
Why,  even  /  might  shout ''  God  save  the  King/' 
And  face  the  chances  of  them  'ungry  guns. 
But  we've  got  three,  another  on  the  way; 
It's  that  wot  makes  me  snarl  and  set  me  jor: 
The  wife  and  nippers,  wot  of  'em,  I  say, 
If  I  gets  knocked  out  in  this  blasted  war? 

Gets  proper  busted  by  a  shell. 

But  .  .  .  wot  the  'ell.  Bill  ?     Wot  the  'ell  ? 

Ay,  wot  the  'ell's  the  use  of  all  this  talk? 
To-day  some  boys  in  blue  was  passin'  me, 
And  some  of  'em  they  'ad  no  legs  to  walk, 
And  some  of  'em  they  'ad  no  eyes  to  see. 
And  —  well,  I  couldn't  look  'em  in  the  face. 
And  so  I'm  goin',  goin'  to  declare 
I'm  under  forty-one  and  take  me  place 
To  face  the  music  with  the  bunch  out  there. 

A  fool,  you  say!     Maybe  you're  right. 

I'll  'ave  no  peace  unless  I  fight. 

I've  ceased  to  think;  I  only  know 

I've  gotta  go.  Bill,  gotta  go. 
15 


THE  CONVALESCENT 

...  So    I   walked   among   the   willows   very 

quietly  all  night; 
There  was  no  moon  at  all,  at  all;  no  timid  star 

alight; 
There  was  no  light  at  all,  at  all;  I  wint  from 

tree  to  tree. 
And  I  called  him  as  his  mother  called,  but  he 

nivver  answered  me. 


Oh  I  called  him  all  the  night-time,  as  I  walked 

the  wood  alone; 
And  I  listened  and  I  listened,  but  I  nivver  heard 

a  moan; 
Then  I  found  him  at  the  dawnin',  when  the 

sorry  sky  was  red: 
I  was  lookin'  for  the  livin',  but  I  only  found 

the  dead. 

i6 


THE  CONVALESCENT 

Sure  I  know  that  it  was  Shamus  by  the  silver 

cross  he  wore; 
But  the  bugles  they  were  callin',  and  I  heard 

the  cannon  roar. 
Oh  I  had  no  time  to  tarry,  so  I  said  a  little 

prayer, 
And  I  clasped  his  hands  together,  and  I  left  him 

lyin'  there. 

Now  the  birds   are   singing   singin',   and  I'm 

home  in  Donegal, 
And  it's  Springtime,   and  I'm  thinkin'   that  I 

only  dreamed  it  all  ; 
I  dreamed  about  that  evil  wood,  all  crowded 

with  its  dead. 
Where  I  knelt  beside  me  brother  when  the 

battle-dawn  was  red. 

Where  I  prayed  beside  me  brother  ere  I  wint 

to  fight  anew: 
Such  dreams  as  these  are  evil  dreams;  I  can't 

believe  it's  true. 
Where  all  is  love  and  laughter,  sure  it's  hard  to 

think  of  loss  .  .  . 
But  mother's  sayin'  nothin',  and  she  clasps  — 

a  silver  cross, 

17 


THE  MAN  FROM  ATHABASKA 

Oh  the  wife  she  tried  to  tell  me  that  'twas 

nothing  but  the  thrumming 
Of  a  wood-pecker  a-rapping  on  the  hollow  of  a 

tree; 
And  she  thought  that  I  was  fooling  when  I  said 

it  was  the  drumming 
Of  the  mustering  of  legions,  and  'twas  calling 

unto  me; 
"'Twas  calling  me  to  pull  my  freight  and  hop 

across  the  sea. 


And  a-mending  of  my  fish-nets  sure  I  started 

up  In  wonder, 
For  I  heard  a  savage  roaring  and  'twas  coming 

from  afar; 
Oh  the  wife  she  tried  to  tell  me  that  'twas 

only  summer  thunder, 
i8 


THE  MAN  FROM  ATHABASKA 

And  she  laughed  a  bit  sarcastic  when  I  told  her 

It  was  War; 
'Twas  the  chariots  of  battle  where  the  mighty 

armies  are. 

Then  down  the  lake  came  Half-breed  Tom  with 

russet  sail  a-flying, 
And  the  word  he  said  was  "  War  "  again,  so 

what  was  I  to  do? 
Oh  the  dogs  they  took  to  howling,   and  the 

missis  took  to  crying, 
As  I  flung  my  silver  foxes  In  the  little  birch 

canoe : 
Yes,  the  old  girl  stood  a-blubbing  till  an  Island 

hid  the  view. 

Says  the  factor ;     "  Mike,  you're  crazy  1     They 

have  soldier  men  a-plenty. 
You're  as  grizzled  as  a  badger,  and  you're  sixty 

year  or  so." 
"  But  I  haven't  missed  a  scrap,"  says  I,  ''  since 

I  was  one  and  twenty. 
And  shall  I  miss  the  biggest?    You  can  bet  your 

whiskers  —  no !  " 
So  I  sold  my  furs  and  started  .  .  .  and  that's 

eighteen  months  ago. 
19 


THE  MAN  FROM  ATHABASKA 

For  I  joined  the  Foreign  Legion,  and  they  put 
me  for  a  starter 

In  the  trenches  of  the  Argonne  with  the  Boche 
a  step  away; 

And  the  partner  on  my  right  hand  was  an 
apache  from  Montmartre; 

On  my  left  there  was  a  millionaire  from  Pitts- 
burg, U.  S.  A. 

(Poor  fellow!  They  collected  him  in  bits  the 
other  day.) 

But  Fm  sprier  than  a  chipmunk,  save  a  touch 

of  the  lumbago, 
And    they    calls    me    Old    Methoosalah,    and 

blagues  me  all  the  day. 
I'm  their  exhibition  sniper,  and  they  work  me 

like  a  Dago, 
And  laugh  to  see  me  plug  a  Boche  a  half  a  mile 

away. 
Oh  I  hold  the  highest  record  in  the  regiment, 

they  say. 

And  at  night  they  gather  round  me,  and  I  tell 

them  of  my  roaming 
In  the  Country  of  the  Crepuscule  beside  the 

Frozen  Sea, 

20 


THE  MAN  FROM  ATHABASKA 

Where  the  musk-ox  runs  unchallenged,  and  the 

cariboo  goes  homing; 
And  they  sit  like  little  children,  just  as  quiet  as 

can  be : 
Men   of   every   crime   and   colour,   how   they 

harken  unto  me ! 


And  I  tell  them  of  the  Furland,  of  the  tumpline 
and  the  paddle, 

Of  secret  rivers  loitering,  that  no  one  will  ex- 
plore; 

And  I  tell  them  of  the  ranges,  of  the  pack-strap 
and  the  saddle. 

And  they  fill  their  pipes  in  silence,  and  their 
eyes  beseech  for  more ; 

While  above  the  star-shells  fizzle  and  the  high 
explosives  roar. 


And  I  tell  of  lakes  fish-haunted,,  where  the  big 

bull  moose  are  calling. 
And  forests  still  as  sepulchres  with  never  trail 

or  track; 
And  valleys  packed  with  purple   gloom,   and 

mountain  peaks  appalling, 

21 


THE  MAN  FROM  ATHABASKA 

And  I  tell  them  of  my  cabin  on  the  shore  at 

Fond  du  Lac; 
And  I  find  myself  a-thlnking :     Sure  I  wish  that 

I  was  back. 

So  I  brag  of  bear  and  beaver  while  the  batter- 
ies are  roaring, 

And  the  fellows  on  the  firing  steps  are  blazing 
at  the  foe; 

And  I  yarn  of  fur  and  feather  when  the  mar- 
mites  are  a-soaring, 

And  they  listen  to  my  stories,  seven  po'tlus  in  a 
row, 

Seven  lean  and  lousy  poilus  with  their  cigarettes 
aglow. 

And  I  tell  them  when  it's  over  how  Til  hike 
for  Athabaska; 

And  those  seven  greasy  poilus  they  are  crazy 
to  go  too. 

And  ril  give  the  wife  the  *'  pickle-tub  "  I  prom- 
ised, and  ril  ask  her 

[The  price  of  mink  and  marten,  and  the  run  of 
cariboo, 

And  ril  get  my  traps  In  order,  and  FU  start  to 
work  anew. 

22 


THE  MAN  FROM  ATHABASKA 

For  IVe  had  my  fill  of  fighting,  and  IVe  seen 

a  nation  scattered, 
And  an  army  swung  to  slaughter,  and  a  river 

red  with  gore. 
And  a  city  all  a-smoulder,  and  ...  as  If  It 

really  mattered, 
For  the  lake  Is  yonder  dreaming,  and  my  cabin's 

on  the  shore; 
And  the  dogs  are  leaping  madly,  and  the  wife  Is 

singing  gladly. 
And  ril  rest  In  Athabaska,  and  Fll  leave  It 

nevermore. 


23 


THE  RED  RETREAT 

Tramp,  tramp,  the  grim  road,  the  road  from 

Mons  to  Wipers 
(Vve  ^ammered  out  this  ditty  with  me  bruised 

and  bleedin^  feet)  ; 
Tramp,  tramp,  the  dim  road  —  we  didn^t  'ave 

no  pipers. 
And  bellies  that  was  'oiler  was  the  drums  we  'ad 

to  beat. 
Tramp,  tramp,  the  bad  road,  the  bits  o'  kiddies 

cryin'  there, 
The   fell   birds   a-flyin'    there,    the   'ouses   all 

aflame; 
Tramp,  tramp,  the  sad  road,  the  pals  I  left 

a4yin'  there. 
Red   there,   and   dead  there.  .  .  .  Oh   blimy, 

it's  a  shame/ 

A-singIn'  *'  'Oo's  Yer  Lady  Friend?  "  we  started 

out  from  'Arver, 
A-singin'  till  our  froats  was  dry^ — we  didn't 

care  a  'ang; 

24 


I 


THE  RED  RETREAT 

The  Frenchies  'ow  they  lined  the  way,  and  slung 

us  their  palaver, 
And  all  we  knowed  to  arnser  was  the  one  word 

"vang"; 
They  gave  us  booze  and  caporal,  and  cheered 

for  us  like  crazy, 
And  all  the  pretty  gels  was  out  to  kiss  us  as  we 

passed; 
And  'ow  they  all  went  dotty  when  we  'owled  the 

Marcelaisey ! 
Oh,   Gawd!     Them  was  the  'appy  days,  the 

days  too  good  to  last. 


We  started  out  for  God  Knows  Where,  we 

started  out  a-roarin'; 
We   'ollered:     *' 'Ere  We  Are   Again,"    and 

'struth !  but  we  was  dry. 
The  dust  was  gummin'  up  our  ears,  and  'ow  the 

sweat  was  pourin' ; 
The  road  was  long,  the  sun  was  like  a  brazier 

in  the  sky. 
We  wondered  where  the  'Uns  was  —  we  wasn't 

long  a-wonderin', 
For  down  a  scruff  of  'ill-side  they  rushes  like  a 

flood; 

25 


THE  RED  RETREAT 

Then  oh!   'twas  music  'eavenly,  our  batteries 

a-thunderin', 
And  arms  and  legs  went  soarin'  in  the  fountain 

of  their  blood. 

For  on  they  came  like  bee-swarms,   a-hochln^ 

and  a-singin'; 
We  pumped  the  bullets  into  'em,  we  couldn't 

miss  a  shot. 
But  though  we  mowed  'em  down  like  grass, 

like  grass  was  they  a-springin'. 
And  all  our  'ands  was  blistered,  for  our  rifles 

was  so  'ot. 
We  roared  with  battle-fury,  and  we  lammed  the 

stuffin'  out  of  'em. 
And  then  we  fixed  our  bay'nets  and  we  spitted 

'em  like  meat. 
You  should  'ave  'card  the  beggars  squeal;  you 

should  'ave  seen  the  rout  of  'em. 
And  'ow  we  cussed  and  wondered  when  the 

word  came:  Retreat! 

Retreat !     That  was  the  'ell  of  it.     It  fair  up- 
set our  'abits, 

A-runnin'   from  them  blighters  over   'alf  the 
roads  of  France; 

26 


I 
I 


THE  RED  RETREAT 

A-scurryin'  before  'em  like  a  lot  of  blurry  rab- 
bits, 

And  knowin'  we  could  smash  'em  if  we  just  'ad 
'alf  a  chance. 

Retreat !  That  was  the  bitter  bit,  a-limpin'  and 
a-blunderin' ; 

All  day  and  night  a-hoofin'  it  and  sleepin'  on 
our  feet; 

A-fightin'  rear  guard  actions  for  a  bit  o'  rest, 
and  wonderin' 

If  sugar  beets  or  mangels  was  the  'olesomest 
to  eat. 


Ho  yus,  there  isn't  many  left  that  started  out 

so  cheerily; 
There  was  no  bands  a-playin'  and  we  'ad  no 

autmobeels. 
Our  tummies  they  was  'oiler,  and  our  'eads  was 

'angin'  wearily, 
And  if  we  stopped  to  light  a  fag  the  'Uns  was 

on  our  'eels. 
That  rotten  road !     I  can't  forget  the  kids  and 

mothers   flyin'   there. 
The  bits  of  barns  a-blazin'  and  the  'orrid  sights 

I  sor; 

27 


THE  RED  RETREAT 

The  stiffs  that  lined  the  wayside,  me  own  pals 

a-lyin'  there, 
Their  faces  covered  over  wiv  a  little  'eap  of 

stror. 

Tramp,  tramp,  the  red  road,  the  wicked  bullets 

himmin' 
(Fve  panted  out  this  ditty  with  me  'ot  'ard 

breath,) 
Tramp,  tramp,  the  dread  road,  the  Boches  all 

a-comin\ 
The  lootin'  and  the  shootin'  and  the  shrieks 

o'  death. 
Tramp,  tramp,  the  fell  road,  the  mad  'orde  pur- 

suin'  there. 
And  'ow  we  'urled  it  back  again,  them  grim, 

grey  waves; 
Tramp,  tramp,  the  'ell  road,  the  ^orror  and  the 

ruin  there. 
The  graves  of  me  matey s  there,  the  grim,  sour 

graves. 


28 


THE  HAGGIS  OF  PRIVATE 
MC  PHEE 

"  Hae  ye  heard  whit  ma  auld  mither's  postit 

tae  me? 
It  fair  maks  me  hamesick,"  says  Private  Mc- 

Phee. 
"And  whit  did  she  send  ye?"   says  Private 

McPhun, 
As  he  cockit  his  rifle  and  bleezed  at  a  Hun. 
*'A  haggis!     A  Haggis!''  says  Private  Mc- 

Phee; 
"  The  brawest  big  haggis  I  ever  did  see. 
And  think!  it's  the  morn  when  fond  memory 

turns 
Tae   haggis   and  whuskey  —  the   Birthday   o' 

Burns. 
We  maun  find  a  dram ;  then  we'll  ca'  In  the  rest 
O'  the  lads,  and  we'll  hae  a  Burns'  NIcht  wi' 

the  best." 

29 


PRIVATE  MCPHEE 

*'  Be  ready  at  sundoon,"  snapped  Sergeant  Mc- 

Cole; 
''  I  want  you  two  men  for  the  List'nin'  Patrol." 
Then  Private  McPhee  looked  at  Private  Mc- 

Phun: 
''  I'm    thinkin',    ma    lad,    we're    confoundedly 

done." 
Then  Private  McPhun  looked  at  Private  Mc- 
Phee: 
*'  I'm  thinkin'  auld   chap,    It's   a'   aff  wl'  oor 

spree." 
But  up  spoke  their  crony,  wee  Wullle  McNaIr : 
*'  Jlst  lea'  yer  braw  haggis  for  me  tae  prepare; 
And  as  for  the  dram.  If  I  search  the  camp 

roun', 
We  maun  hae  a  drappie  tae  jist  haud  It  doon. 
Sae  rin,  lads,  and  think,  though  the  nicht  It  be 

black, 
O'  the  haggis  that's  waltin'  ye  when  ye  get 

back." 


My !  but  It  wis  waesome  on  Naebuddy's  Land, 
And  the  deld  they  were  rottin'  on  every  hand. 
And  the  rockets  like  corpse  candles  hauntit  the 
sky, 

30 


PRIVATE  MCPHEE 

And  the  winds  o'  destruction  went  shudderln' 

by. 

There  wis   skelpin'   o'   bullets   and  skirlin'   o' 

shells, 
And  breengin'  o'  bombs  and  a  thoosand  death- 
knells  ; 
But  cooryin'  doon  in  a  Jack  Johnson  hole 
Little  fashed  the  twa  men  o'  the  List'nin'  Patrol. 
For  sweeter  than  honey  and  bricht  as  a  gem 
Wis  the  thocht  o'  the  haggis  that  waitit  for 
them. 


Yet  alas!  in  oor  moments  o'  sunniest  cheer 

Calamity's  aften  maist  cruelly  near. 

And   while   the    twa    talked   o'    their   puddin' 

divine 
The  Boches  below  them  were  howkin'  a  mine. 
And  while  the  twa  cracked  o'  the  feast  they 

would  hae, 
The  fuse  it  wis  burnin'  and  bumin'  away. 
Then  sudden  a  roar  like  the  thunner  o'  doom, 
A  hell-leap  o'  flame  .  .  .  then  the  wheesht  o' 

the  tomb. 


31 


PRIVATE  MC  PHEE 

**  Haw,  Jock!     Are  ye  hurtit?"  says  Private 

McPhun. 
**  Ay,  Geordie,  they've  got  me;  Pm  fearin'  Pm 

done. 
It's  ma  leg;  Pm  jist  thinkin'  it's  aff  at  the  knee; 
Ye'd  best  gang  and  leave  me,"   says  Private 

McPhee. 
*'  Oh  leave  ye   I   wunna,"   says   Private   Mc- 
Phun; 
*'  And  leave  ye  I  canna,  for  though  I  micht  run. 
It's  no  faur  I  wud  gang,  it's  no  muckle  I'd  see : 
I'm  blindit,   and  that's  whit's  the  maitter  wi' 

me." 
Then  Private  McPhee  sadly  shakit  his  heid: 
*'  If  we  bide  here  for  lang,  we'll  be  bidin'  for 

deid. 
And  yet,  Geordie  lad,  I  could  gang  weel  con- 
tent 
If  I'd  tasted  that  haggis  ma  auld  mither  sent.'* 
*^  That's    droll,"    says    McPhun;    ^^  ye've    jist 

speakit  ma  mind. 
Oh  I  ken  it's  a  terrible  thing  tae  be  blind; 
And  yet  it's  no  that  that  embitters  ma  lot  — 
It's  missin'  that  braw  muckle  haggis  ye've  got." 
For  a  while  they  were  silent;  then  up  once  agaia 


32 


PRIVATE  MC  PHEE 

Spoke  Private  McPhee,  though  he  whussilt  wi* 

pain: 
'*  And  why  should  we  miss  it?     Between  you 

and  me 
WeVe  legs  for  tae  run,  and  we've  eyes  for  tae 

see. 
You  lend  me  your  shanks  and  Til  lend  you  ma 

sicht, 
And  we'll  baith  hae  a  kyte-fu'   o'  haggis  the 

nicht." 


Oh  the  sky  it  wis  dourlike  and  dreepin'  a  wee, 

When   Private   McPhun   gruppit  Private   Mc- 
Phee. 

Oh   the   glaur  it  wis   fylin'   and   crieshin'   the 
grun', 

When    Private    McPhee    guidit    Private    Mc- 
Phun. 

"  Keep  clear  o'  them  corpses  —  they're  maybe 
no  deid! 

Haud  on !     There's  a  big  muckle  crater  aheid. 

Look  oot!     There's  a  sap;  we'll  be  haein'  a 
coup. 

A  staur-shell!     For  Godsake!    Doun,  lad,  on 
yer  daup. 

33 


PRIVATE  MC  PHEE 

Bear  aff  tae  yer  richt.  .  .  .  Aw  yer  jist  daein' 

fine: 
Before   the  nicht's   feenlshed  on  haggis  we'll 

dine." 


There  wis  death  and  destruction  on  every  hand; 
There  wis  havoc  and  horror  on  Naebuddy's 

Land. 
And  the  shells  bickered  doun  wl'  a  crump  and 

a  glare, 
And  the  hameless  wee  bullets  were  dingin'  the 

air. 
Yet  on  they  went  staggering  cooryin'  doun 
When  the  stutter  and  cluck  o'  a  Maxim  crept 

roun'. 
And  the  legs  o'  McPhun  they  were  sturdy  and 

stoot, 
And  McPhee  on  his  back  kept  a  bonnie  look-oot. 
*'  On,  on,  ma  brave  lad!     We're  no  faur  frae 

the  goal; 
I  can  hear  the  braw  sweerin*  o'  Sergeant  Mc- 

Cole.'' 


34 


PRIVATE  MC  PHEE 

But  strength  has  its  leemit,  and  Private  Mc- 

Phun, 
Wi'  a  sab  and  a  curse  fell  his  length  on  the 

grun'. 
Then  Private  McPhee  shoutit  doon  in  his  ear: 
'*  Jist  think  o'  the  haggis!  I  smell  it  from  here. 
It's  gushin'  wi'  juice,  it's  embaumin'  the  air; 
It's  steamin'  for  us,  and  we're  —  jist  —  aboot 

—  there." 
Then  Private   McPhun  answers:     *' Dommit, 

auld  chap ! 
For  the  sake  o'  that  haggis  I'll  gang  till  I  drap." 
And  he   gets  on  his  feet  wi'  a  heave  and  a 

strain. 
And  onward  he  staggers  in  passion  and  pain. 
And  the  flare  and  the  glare  and  the  fury  In- 
crease, 
Till  you'd  think  they'd  jist  taken  a'  hell  on  a 

lease. 
And  on  they  go  reelin'  in  peetifu'  plight. 
And  someone  is  shoutin'  away  on  their  right; 
And  someone  is  runnin',  and  noo  they  can  hear 
A  sound  like  a  prayer  and  a  sound  like  a  cheer; 
And  swift  through  the  crash  and  the  flash  and 

the  din. 
The  lads  o'  the  Hielands  are  bringin'  them  In. 

35 


PRIVATE  MC  PHEE 

"  They're  baith  sairly  woundit,  but  is  It  no  droll 
Hoo  they  rave  aboot  haggis?''  says  Sergeant 

McCole. 
When  hirplin  alang  comes  wee  Wullie  McNair, 
And  they  a'  wonnert  why  he  wis  greetin'  sae 

salr. 
And  he  says:     *'  Fd  jist  liftit  it  oot  o'  the  pot, 
And  there  It  lay  steamin'  and  savoury  hot, 
When  sudden  I  dooked  at  the  fleech  o'  a  shell, 
And  It  —  drapped  on  the  haggis  and  dinged  it 

tae  helir 


And  oh  but  the  lads  were  fair  taken  aback; 
Then  sudden  the  order  wis  passed  tae  attack, 
And  up  from  the  trenches  like  lions  they  leapt, 
And  on  through  the  nicht  like  a  torrent  they 

swept. 
On,  on,  wl'  their  bayonets  thirstin'  before ! 
On,  on  tae  the  foe  wi'  a  rush  and  a  roar ! 
And  wild  to  the  welkin  their  battle-cry  rang. 
And  doon  on  the  Boches  like  tigers  they  sprang : 
And  there  wisna  a  man  but  had  death  in  his  ee, 
For  he  thocht  o'  the  haggis  o'  Private  McPhee. 


36 


THE  LARK 

From  wrath-red  dawn  to  wrath-red  dawn, 

The  guns  have  brayed  without  abate; 

And  now  the  sick  sun  looks  upon 

The  bleared,   blood-boltered  fields  of  hate 

As  if  it  loathed  to  rise  again. 

How  strange   the   hush!     Yet  sudden,  hark  I 

From  yon  down-trodden  gold  of  grain, 

The  leaping  rapture  of  a  lark. 


A  fusillade  of  melody. 
That  sprays  us  from  yon  trench  of  sky; 
A  new  amazing  enemy 
We  cannot  silence  though  we  try; 
A  battery  on  radiant  wings, 
That  from  yon  gap  of  golden  fleece 
Hurls  at  us  hopes  of  such  strange  things 
As  joy  and  home  and  love  and  peace. 

37 


THE  LARK 

Pure  heart  of  song !  do  you  not  know 
That  we  are  making  earth  a  hell? 
Or  IS  It  that  you  try  to  show 
Life  still  Is  joy  and  all  is  well? 
Brave  little  wings!     Ah,  not  in  vain 
You  beat  into  that  bit  of  blue : 
Lo!  we  who  pant  In  war's  red  rain 
Lift  shining  eyes,  see  Heaven  too. 


38 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT 
'IGGINS 

Me  and  Ed  and  a  stretcher 

Out  on  the  nootral  ground. 

(If  there's  one  dead  corpse,   Til  betcher 

There's  a  'undrcd  smellin'  around.) 

Me  and  Eddie  O'Brian, 

Both  of  the  R.  A.  M.  C. 

*'  It's  a  'ell  of  a  night 

For  a  soul  to  take  flight," 

As  Eddie  remarks  to  me. 

Me  and  Ed  crawlin'  'omeward, 

Thinkin'  our  job  is  done, 

When   sudden   and  clear. 

Wot  do  we  'ear: 

'Owl  of  a  wounded  'Un. 

''  Got  to  take  'im,"  snaps  Eddy; 
'*  Got  to  take  all  we  can. 
'E  may  be  a  Germ 
Wiv  the  'eart  of  a  worm. 
But,  blarst  'im!  ain't  'e  a  man?" 
So  'e  sloshes  out  fixin'  a  dressin' 

39 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT  ^IGGINS 

('E'd  always  a  medical  knack), 

When  that  wounded  'Un 

'E  rolls  to  'is  gun, 

And  'e  plugs  me  pal  in  the  back. 

Now  what  would  you  do?  I  arst  you. 

There  was  me  slaughtered  mate. 

There  was  that  'Un 

(Td  collered  'is  gun), 

A-snarlin'  'Is  'ymn  of  'ate. 

Wot  did  I  do?     'Ere,  whisper  ... 

'E'd  a  shiny  bald  top  to  'Is  'ead, 

But  when  I  got  through. 

Between  me  and  you. 

It  was  'orrld  and  jaggy  and  red. 

**  'Ang  on  like  a  limpet,  Eddy. 
Thank  Gord!  you  ain't  dead  after  all." 
It's  slow  and  it's  sure  and  it's  steady 
(Which  is  'ard,  for  'e's  big  and  I'm  small). 
The  rockets  are  shootin'  and  shinin'. 
It's  rainin'  a  perishin'  flood, 
The  bullets  are  buzzin'  and  whinin', 
And  I'm  up  to  me  stern  in  the  mud. 
There's  all  kinds  of  'owlln'  and  'ootin'; 
It's  black  as  a  bucket  of  tar; 
Oh,  Fm  doin'  my  bit, 
40 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT,  'IGGINS 

But  I'm  'avin'  a  fit, 

And  I  wish  I  was  'ome  wiv  Mar. 

"Stick  on  like  a  plaster,  Eddy. 
Old  sport,  you're  a-slackin'  your  grip." 
Gord!     But  I'm  crocky  already; 
My  feet,  'ow  they  slither  and  slip! 
There  goes  the  biff  of  a  bullet. 
The  Boches  have  got  us  for  fair. 
Another  one  —  Whut! 
The  son  of  a  slut! 
'E  managed  to  miss  by  a  'air. 
'Ow!     Wot  was  it  jabbed  at  me  shoulder? 
Gave  It  a  dooce  of  a  wrench. 
Is  It  Eddy  or  me 
Wot's  a-bleedin'  so  free? 
Crust!  but  It's  long  to  the  trench. 
I  ain't  just  as  strong  as  a  Sandow, 
And  Ed  ain't  a  flapper  by  far; 
I'm  blamed  if  I  understand  'ow 
We've  managed  to  get  where  we  are. 
But  'ere's  for  a  bit  of  a  breather. 
"  Steady  there,  Ed,  'arf  a  mo'. 
Old  pal.  It's  all  right; 
It's  a  'ell  of  a  fight. 
But  are  we  down-'earted?     No-o-o." 

41 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT  'IGGINS 

Now  war  is  a  funny  thing,  ain't  it? 
It's  the  rummiest  sort  of  a  go. 
For  when  it's  most  real, 
It's  then  that  you  feel 
You're  a-watchin'  a  cinema  show. 
'Ere's   me  wot's   a   barber's   assistant. 
Hey,  presto!     It's  somewheres  in  France, 
And  I'm  'ere  in  a  pit 
Where  a  coal-box  'as  'it. 
And  it's  all  like  a  giddy  romance. 
The   ruddy   quick-firers   are  spittin', 
The  'eavies  are  bellowin'  'ate. 
And  'ere  I  am  cashooly  sittin', 
And  'oldin'  the  'ead  of  me  mate. 
Them  gharstly  green  star-shells  is  beamin', 
'Ot  shrapnel  is  poppin'  like  rain, 
And  I'm  sayin' :  *'  Bert  'Iggins,  you're  dreamin', 
And  you'll  wake  up  in   'Ampstead  again. 
You'll  wake  up  and  'ear  yourself  sayin'  : 
'Would  you  like,  sir,  to  'ave  a  shampoo?' 
'Stead  of  sheddin'  yer  blood 
In  the  rain  and  the  mud. 
Which  is   some'ow  the   right  thing  to   do; 
Which  is  some'ow  yer  'oary-eyed  dooty. 
Wot  you're  doin'  the  best  wot  you  can. 
For  'Ampstead  and  'ome  and  beauty, 
42 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT  'IGGINS 

And  you've  been  and  youVe  slaughtered  a  man. 

A  feller  wot  punctured  your  partner; 

Oh,  you  'ammered  'Im  'ard  on  the  'ead, 

And  you  still  see  'is  eyes 

Starin'  bang  at  the  skies, 

And  you  ain't  even  sorry  'e's  dead. 

But  you  wish  you  was  back  in  your  diggin's 

Asleep  on  your  mouldy  old  stror. 

Oh,  you're  doin'  yer  bit,   'Erbert  'Iggins, 

But  you  ain't  just  enjoyin'  the  war." 

"  'Ang  on  like  a  hoctopus,  Eddy. 
It's  us  for  the  bomb-belt  again. 
Except  for  the  shrap 
Which  'as  'it  me  a  tap, 
I'm   feelin'   as  right  as  the  rain. 
It's  my  silly  old  feet  wot  are  slippin', 
It's  as  dark  as  a  'ogs'ead  o'  sin. 
But  don't  be  oneasy,  my  pippin, 
I'm  goin'  to  pilot  you  in. 
It's  my  silly  old  'ead  wot  is  reelin'. 
The  bullets  is  buzzin'  like  bees. 
Me  shoulder's  red-'ot. 
And  I'm  bleedin'  a  lot. 
And  me  legs  is  on'inged  at  the  knees. 
But  we're  staggerin'  nearer  and  nearer. 

43 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT  'IGGINS 

Just  stick  It,  old  sport,  play  the  game. 

I  make  'em  out  clearer  and  clearer, 

Our  trenches  a-snappin'  with  flame. 

Oh,  we're  stumblin'  closer  and  closer. 

'Ang  on  there,  lad!     Just  one  more  try. 

Did  you  say:     Put  you  down?     Damn  it,  no, 

sir! 
I'll  carry  you  in  if  I  die. 
By  cracky!  old  feller,  they've  seen  us. 
They're  sendin'  out  stretchers  for  two. 
Let's  give  'em  the  hoorah  between  us 
('Anged  lucky  we  aren't  booked  through). 
My  flipper  is  mashed  to  a  jelly. 
A  bullet  'as  tickled  your  spleen. 
We've  shed  lots  of  gore 
And  we're  leakin'   some  more. 
But  —  wot  a  hoccaslon  it's  been! 
Ho!     'Ere  comes  the  rescuin'  party. 
They're  crawlin'   out  cautious  and  slow. 
Come!     Buck  up  and  greet  'em,  my  'earty, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  —  so. 
They  mustn't  think  we  was  down-'earted. 
Old  pal,  we  was  never  down-'earted. 
If  they  arsts  us  if  we  was  down-'earted 
We'll  'owl  in  their  fyces :     '  No-o-o ! ' 


44 


A  SONG  OF  WINTER  WEATHER 

It  isn't  the  foe  that  we  fear; 

It  isn't  the  bullets  that  whine; 

It  isn't  the  business  career 

Of  a  shell,  or  the  bust  of  a  mine; 

It  isn't  the  snipers  who  seek 

To  nip  our  young  hopes  in  the  bud: 

No,  it  isn't  the  guns, 

And  it  isn't  the  Huns  — 

It's  the  mud, 

mud, 

mud. 


It  isn't  the  melee  we  mind. 
That  often  is  rather  good  fun. 
It  isn't  the  shrapnel  we  find 
Obtrusive  when  rained  by  the  ton; 
It  isn't  the  bounce  of  the  bombs 
That  gives  us  a  positive  pain: 
It's  the  strafing  we  get 
When  the  weather  is  wet  — 
45 


A  SONG  OF  WINTER  WEATHER 

It's  the  rain, 

rain, 

rain. 

It  Isn't  because  we  lack  grit 

We  shrink  from  the  horrors  of  war. 

We  don't  mind  the  battle  a  bit; 

In  fact  that  is  what  we  are  for; 

It  isn't  the  rum-jars  and  things 

Make  us  wish  we  were  back  in  the  fold: 

It's  the  fingers  that  freeze 

In  the  boreal  breeze  — 

It's  the  cold, 

cold, 

cold. 

Oh,  the  rain,  the  mud,  and  the  cold, 
The  Qold,  the  mud,  and  the  rain ; 
With  weather  at  zero  it's  hard  for  a  hero 
From  language  that's  rude  to  refrain. 
With  porridgy  muck  to  the  knees. 
With  sky  that's   a-pouring  a   flood. 
Sure  the  worst  of  our  foes 
Are  the  pains  and  the  woes 
Of  the  rain, 

the  cold, 

and  the  mud. 
46 


TIPPERARY  DAYS 

Oh,  weren't  they  the  fine  boys!  You  never 
saw  the  beat  of  them, 

Singing  all  together  with  their  throats  bronze- 
bare; 

Fighting-fit  and  mirth-mad,  music  in  the  feet  of 
them. 

Swinging  on  to  glory  and  the  wrath  out  there. 

Laughing  by  and  chaffing  by,  frolic  in  the  smiles 
of  them, 

On  the  road,  the  white  road,  all  the  afternoon; 

Strangers  in  a  strange  land,  miles  and  miles  and 
miles  of  them. 

Battle-bound  and  heart-high,  and  singing  this 
tune  : 

It^s  a  long  way  to  Tipperary, 
Ifs  a  long  way  to  go; 
It^s  a  long  way  to  Tipperary, 
And  the  sweetest  girl  I  know. 
Good-bye^  Piccadilly, 
Farewell,  Lester  Square: 
47 


TIPPERARY  DAYS 

Ifs  a  long,  long  way  to   Tipperary, 
But  my  heart's  right  there. 

**  Come,  Yvonne  and  Juliette !     Come,  Mimi, 

and  cheer  for  them ! 
[Throw  them  flowers  and  kisses  as  they  pass 

you  by. 
Aren't  they  the  lovely  lads!     Haven't  you  a 

tear  for  them 
Going  out  so  gallantly  to  dare  and  die? 
What  IS  it  they're  singing  so  ?     Some  high  hymn 

of  Motherland? 
Some    immortal    chanson   of   their   Faith   and 

King? 
Marseillaise    or    Brabancon,    anthem    of   that 

other  land. 
Dears,    let   us    remember    it,    that    song   they 

sing: 

^^  Oest  tin  chemin  long  ^  to  Tepararee, 

Oest  un  chemin  long,  c'est  vrai; 

C'est  un  chemin  long  '  to   TeparareCy 

Et  la  belle  fille  qu'je  connais. 

Bon  jour,  Peekadeely! 

Au  revoir,  Lestaire  Squaire! 

C*est  un  chemin  long  ^  to    Tepararee^ 

Mais  mon  coeur  ^  ees  zaire/  '' 

48 


TIPPERARY  DAYS 

The    gallant    old    ''  Contemptibles !  "     There 

isn't  much  remains  of  them, 
So  full  of  fun  and  fitness,  and  a-singing  in  their 

pride ; 
For  some  are  cold  as  clabber  and  the  corby  picks 

the  brains  of  them, 
And  some  are  back  in  Blighty,  and  a-wishing 

they  had  died. 
And  yet  it  seems  but  yesterday,  that  great,  glad 

sight  of  them, 
Swinging  on  to  battle  as  the  sky  grew  black  and 

black ; 
But  oh  their  glee  and  glory,  and  the  great,  grim^ 

fight  of  them!  — 
Just  whistle  Tipperary  and  it  all  comes  back  t 

It^s  a  long  way  to  Tipperary 

(Which  means  '^  ^ome  ^'  anywhere) ; 

Ifs  a  long  way  to  Tipperary 

(And  the  things  wot  make  you  care). 

Good-bye,  Piccadilly 

(^Ow  I  'opes  my  folks  is  well)  ; 

It's  a  long,  long  way  to  Tipperary  — 

CR/     Ain't  War  just  'ell?) 


49 


FLEURETTE 

(The  Wounded   Canadian  Speaks) 

My  leg?     It's  off  at  the  knee. 

Do  I  miss  It?     Well,  some.     You  see 

IVe  had  It  since  I  was  born; 

And  lately  a  devilish  corn. 

(I  rather  chuckle  with  glee 

Xo  think  how  I've  fooled  that  corn.) 

But  ril  hobble  around  all  right. 
It  Isn't  that,  It's  my  face. 
Oh  I  know  I'm  a  hideous  sight, 
Hardly  a  thing  In  place; 
Sort  of  gargoyle,  you'd  say. 
Nurse  won't  give  me  a  glass, 
But  I  see  the  folks  as  they  pass 
Shudder  and  turn  away; 
[Turn  away  In  distress  .  .  . 
Mirror  enough,  I  guess. 

I'm  gay!     You  bet  I  am  gay; 
But  I  wasn't  a  while  ago. 
If  you'd  seen  me  even  to-day, 
The  darndest  picture  of  woe, 
50 


FLEURETTE 

With  this   Caliban  mug  of  mine, 
So  ravaged  and  raw  and  red, 
Turned  to  the  wall  —  in  fine, 
Wishing  that  I  was  dead.  ... 
What  has  happened  since  then. 
Since  I  lay  with  my  face  to  the  wall, 
The  most  despairing  of  men? 
Listen!     Til  tell  you  all. 

That  potlu  across  the  way, 

With  the  shrapnel  wound  in  his  hea3^ 

Has  a  sister:  she  came  to-day 

To  sit  awhile  by  his  bed. 

All  morning  I  heard  him  fret : 

"  Oh,  when  will  she  come,  Fleurette?. " 

Then  sudden,  a  joyous  cry; 

The  tripping  of  little  feet; 

The  softest,  tenderest  sigh; 

A  voice  so  fresh  and  sweet; 

Clear  as  a  silver  bell. 

Fresh  as  the  morning  dews: 

''  Cest  tot,  c'est  tot,  Marcel/ 

'Mon  frere,  comme  ]e  suis  heureuse! '' 

So  over  the  blanket's  rim 
I  raised  my  terrible  face, 
51 


FLEURETTE 

And  I  saw  —  how  I  envied  him ! 
A  girl  of  such  delicate  grace; 
Sixteen,   all  laughter  and  love; 
As  gay  as  a  linnet,  and  yet 
As  tenderly  sweet  as  a  dove; 
Half  woman,  half  child  —  Fleurette. 

Then  I  turned  to  the  wall  again. 
(I  was  awfully  blue,  you  see,) 
And  I  thought  with  a  bitter  pain : 
*'  Such  visions  are  not  for  me." 
So  there  like  a  log  I  lay, 
All  hidden,  I  thought  from  view, 
.When  sudden  I  heard  her  say: 
**Ah!     Who  is  that  malheureux? '' 
Then  briefly  I  heard  him  tell 
(However  he  came  to  know) 
How  rd  smothered  a  bomb  that  fell 
Into  the  trench,  and  so 
None  of  my  men  were  hit, 
[Though  it  busted  me  up  a  bit. 

Well,  I  didn't  quiver  an  eye, 
And  he  chattered  and  there  she  sat; 
And  I  fancied  I  heard  her  sigh  — 
But  I  wouldn't  just  swear  to  that. 
And  maybe  she  wasn't  so  bright, 
52 


FLEURETTE 

Though  she  talked  in  a  merry  strain, 

And  I  closed  my  eyes  ever  so  tight^ 

Yet  I  saw  her  ever  so  plain: 

Her  dear  little  tilted  nose, 

Her  delicate,  dimpled  chin. 

Her  mouth  like  a  budding  rose, 

And  the  glistening  pearls  within; 

Her  eyes  like  the  violet: 

Such  a  rare  little  queen  —  Fleurette. 

And  at  last  when  she  rose  to  go. 

The  light  was  a  little  dim, 

And  I  ventured  to  peep,  and  so 

I  saw  her,  graceful  and  slim, 

And  she  kissed  him  and  kissed  him,  and  oh 

How  I  envied  and  envied  him! 

So  when  she  was  gone  I  said 

In  rather  a  dreary  voice 

To  him  of  the  opposite  bed: 

"  Ah,  friend,  how  you  must  rejoice! 

But  me,  Fm  a  thing  of  dread. 

For  me  nevermore  the  bliss, 

The  thrill  of  a  woman's  kiss." 

Then  I  stopped,  for  lo !  she  was  there, 
And  a  great  light  shone  in  her  eyes. 
53 


FLEURETTE 

Arid  me!     I  could  only  stare, 

I  was  taken  so  by  surprise, 

When  gently  she  bent  her  head : 

'^  May  I  kiss  you,  Serjeant?  ^'  she  said. 

Then  she  kissed  my  burning  lips 
With  her  mouth  like  a  scented  flower, 
And  I  thrilled  to  the  finger-tips, 
And  I  hadn't  even  the  power 
To  say:  ''  God  bless  you,  dear!  " 
And  I  felt  such  a  precious  tear 
Fall  on  my  withered  cheek. 
And  darn  It!     I  couldn't  speak. 

And  so  she  went  sadly  away. 

And  I  knew  that  my  eyes  were  wet. 

Ah,  not  to  my  dying  day 

Win  I  forget,  forget! 

Can  you  wonder  now  I  am  gay? 

God  bless  her,  that  little  Fleurette! 


54 


FUNK 

When  your  marrer  bone  seems  'oiler, 

And  you're  glad  you  ain't  no  taller, 

And  you're  all  a-shakin'  like  you  'ad  the  chills; 

When  your  skin  creeps  like  a  pullet's. 

And  you're  duckin'  all  the  bullets. 

And  you're  green  as  gorgonzola  round  the  gills; 

When  your  legs  seem  made  of  jelly, 

And  you're  squeamish  in  the  belly. 

And  you  want  to  turn  about  and  do  a  bunk: 

For  Gawd's  sake,  kid,  don't  show  it! 

Don't  let  your  mateys  know  it  — 

You're  just  sufferin'  from  funk,  funk,  funk* 

Of  course  there's  no  denyin' 
That  it  ain't  so  easy  tryin' 
To  grin  and  grip  your  rifle  by  the  butt, 
When  the  'ole  world  rips  asunder. 
And  you  sees  yer  pal  go  under, 
As  a  bunch  of  shrapnel  sprays  'im  on  the  nut; 

55 


FUNK 

1  admit  It's  'ard  contrlvin' 

When  you  'ears  the  shells  arrlvin', 

To  discover  you're  a  bloomin'  bit  o'  spunk; 

But,  my  lad,  you've  got  to  do  It, 

And  your  God  will  see  you  through  It, 

For  wot  'E  'ates  Is  funk,  funk,  funk. 

So  stand  up,  son;  look  gritty, 

And  just  'um  a  lively  ditty. 

And  only  be  afraid  to  be  afraid; 

Just  'old  yer  rifle  steady, 

And  'ave  yer  bay'nit  ready. 

For  that's  the  way  good  soldier-men  Is  made. 

And  If  you  'as  to  die. 

As  It  sometimes  'appens,  why. 

Far  better  die  a  'ero  than  a  skunlc; 

A-doIn'  of  yer  bit. 

And  so  —  to  'ell  with  it, 

Xhere  ain't  no  bloomin'  funk,  funk,  funk. 


56 


OUR  HERO 

"  Flowers,    only    flowers  —  bring    me    dainty 

posies, 
Blossoms  for  forgetfulness,"  that  was  all  he 

said; 
So  we  sacked  our  gardens,  violets  and  roses. 
Lilies  white  and  bluebells  laid  we  on  his  bed. 
Soft   his   pale    hands   touched   them,    tenderly 

caressing; 
Soft  into  his  tired  eyes  came  a  little  light; 
Such  a  wistful  love-look,  gentle  as  a  blessing; 
[There  amid  the  flowers  waited  he  the  night. 

"  I  would  have  you  raise  me ;  I  can  see  the  West 

then  : 
I  would  see  the  sun  set  once  before  I  go." 
So  he  lay  a-gazing,  seemed  to  be  at  rest  then, 
Quiet  as  a  spirit  in  the  golden  glow. 
So  he  lay  a-watching  rosy  castles  crumbling, 
Moats  of  blinding  amber,  bastions  of  flame. 
Rugged  rifts  of  opal,  crimson  turrets  tumbling; 
So  he  lay  a-dreaming  till  the  shadows  came. 

57 


OUR  HERO 

"Open  wide   the  window;   there's   a  lark  a- 

singing; 
There's  a  glad  lark  singing  In  the  evening  sky. 
How  It's  wild  with  rapture,  radiantly  winging: 
Oh  It's  good  to  hear  that  when  one  has  to  die. 
I  am  horror-haunted  from  the  hell  they  found 

me; 
I  am  battle-broken,  all  I  want  is  rest. 
Ah  I     It's  good  to  die  so,  blossoms  all  around 

me. 
And  a  kind  lark  singing  In  the  golden  West. 

*'  Flowers,  song  and  sunshine,  just  one  thing  Is 
wanting. 

Just  the  happy  laughter  of  a  little  child." 

So  we  brought  our  dearest,  Doris  all-en- 
chanting; 

Tenderly  he  kissed  her;  radiant  he  smiled. 

''  In  the  golden  peace-time  you  will  tell  the 
story 

How  for  you  and  yours,  sweet,  bitter  deaths 
were  ours.  ... 

God  bless  little  children!"^  So  he  passed  to 
glory, 

So  we  left  him  sleeping,  still  amid  the  flow'rs. 


58 


MY  MATE 

I've  been  sittin'  starin',  starin'  at  'is  muddy  pair 
of  boots, 

And  tryin'  to  convince  meself  it's  'im. 

■(Look  out  there,  lad!  That  sniper — 'e's  a 
dysey  when  'e  shoots; 

'E'll  be  layin'  of  you  out  the  same  as  Jim.) 

Jim  as  lies  there  in  the  dug-out  wiv  'is  blanket 
round  'is  'ead, 

To  keep  'is  brains  from  mixin'  wiv  the  mud; 

And  'is  face  as  white  as  putty,  and  « 'is  over- 
coat all  red, 

Like  'e's  spilt  a  bloomin'  paint-pot  —  but  it's 
blood. 


And  I'm  tryin'  to  remember  of  a  time  we  wasn't 
pals. 

'Ow  often  we've  played  'ookey,  'im  and  me ; 

And  sometimes  it  was  music-'alls,   and  some- 
times it  was  gals, 

59 


MY  MATE 

And  even  there  we  'ad  no  disagree. 

For  when  'e  copped  Mariar  Jones,  the  one  I 

liked  the  best, 
I  shook  'is  'and  and  loaned  'im  'arf  a  quid; 
I  saw  'im  through  the  parson's  job,  I  'elped  'im 

make  'is  nest, 
I  even  stood  god-farther  to  the  kid. 


So  when  the  war  broke  out,  sez  'e:     *' Well, 

wot  abaht  it,  Joe  ?  " 
**  Well,  wot  abaht  it,  lad?  "  sez  I  to  'im. 
'Is  missis  made  a  awful  fuss,  but  'e  was  mad 

to  go, 
('E  always  was  'igh-sperrited  was  Jim). 
Well,  none  of  it's  been  'eaven,  and  the  most 

of  it's  been  'ell. 
But  we've  shared  our  baccy,  and  we've  'alved 

our  bread. 
We'd  all  the  luck  at  Wipers,  and  we  shaved 

through  Noove  Chapelle, 
And  .  .  .  that  snipin'  barstard  gits  'im  on  the 

'ead. 


60 


MY  MATE 

Now  wot  I  wants  to  know  is,  why  it  wasn't 

me  was  took? 
IVe  only  got  meself,  'e  stands  for  three. 
Fm  plainer  than  a  louse,  while  'e  was  'andsome 

as  a  dook; 
'E  always  was  a  better  man  than  me. 
'E  was  goin'  ^ome  next  Toosday;  'e  was  'appy 

as  a  lark. 
And  'e'd  just  received  a  letter  from  'is  kid; 
And  'e  struck  a  match  to  show  me,  as  we  stood 

there  in  the  dark. 
When  .  .  .  that  bleedin'  bullet  got  'im  on  the 

lid. 

'E  was  killed  so  awful  sudden  that  'e  'adn't 

time  to  die. 
'E  sorto  jumped,  and  came  down  wiv  a  thud. 
Them  corpsy-lookin'  star-shells  kept  a-streamin' 

in  the  sky, 
•And  there  'e  lay  like  nothin'  in  the  mud. 
And  there  'e  lay  so  quiet  wiv  no  mansard  to  'is 

'ead, 
And  Fm  sick,  and  blamed  if  I  can  understand: 
The  pots  of  'alf  and  'alf  weVe  'ad,  and  zip/ 

like  that — 'e's  dead, 
Wiv  the  letter  of  'is  nipper  in  'is  'and. 

6i 


MY  MATE 

There's  some  as  fights  for  freedom  and  there's 

some  as  fights  for  fun, 
But  me,  my  lad,  I  fights  for  bleedin'  'ate. 
You  can  blame  the  war  and  blast  It,  but  I  'opes 

it  won't  be  done 
Till  I  gets   the  bloomin'   blood-price   for  me 

mate. 
It'll  take  a  bit  o'  bayonet  to  level  up  for  Jim; 
Then  if  I'm  spared  I  think  I'll  'ave  a  bid, 
Wiv  'er  that  was  Mariar  Jones  to  take  the 

place  of  'im. 
To  sorter  be  a  farther  to  'is  kid. 


62 


MILKING  TIME 

There's  a  drip  of  honeysuckle  in  the  deep  green 

lane; 
There's  old  Martin  jogging  homeward  on  his 

worn  old  wain; 
There  are  cherry  petals  falling,  and  a  cuckoo 

calling,  calling. 
And  a  score  of  larks    (God  bless  'em)    .  .  . 

but  it's  all  pain,  pain. 
For  you  see  I  am  not  really  there  at  all,  not 

at  all; 
For  you   see   I'm   in  the   trenches  where  the 

crump-crumps  fall; 
And  the  bits  o'  shells  are  screaming  and  it's 

only  blessed  dreaming 
That  in  fancy  I  am  seeming  back  in  old  Saint 

Pol. 

Oh  I've  thought  of  it  so  often  since  I've  come 

down  here; 
And  I  never  dreamt  that  any  place  could  be 

so  dear; 

63 


MILKING  TIME 

The  silvered  whinstone  houses,  and  the  rosy 
men  in  blouses, 

And  the  kindly,  white-capped  women  with  their 
eyes  spring-clear. 

And  mother's  sitting  knitting  where  her  roses 
climb. 

And  the  angelus  is  calling  with  a  soft,  soft 
chime. 

And  the  sea-wind  comes  caressing,  and  the 
light's  a  golden  blessing. 

And  Yvonne,  Yvonne  is  guessing  that  it's  milk- 
ing time. 


Oh  it's  Sunday,  for  she's  wearing  of  her  broid- 

ered  gown; 
And  she  draws  the  pasture  pickets  and  the  cows 

come  down; 
And  their  feet  are  powdered  yellow,  and  their 

voices  honey-mellow, 
And  they  bring  a  scent  of  clover,  and  their  eyes 

are  brown. 
And  Yvonne  is  dreaming  after,  but  her  eyes  are 

blue; 
And  her  lips  are  made  for  laughter,  and  her 

white  teeth  too ; 

64 


[ 


MILKING  TIME 

And  her  mouth  is  like  a  cherry,  and  a  dimple 

mocking  merry 
Is  lurking  in  the  very  cheek  she  turns  to  you. 


So  I  walk  beside  her  kindly,  and  she  laughs  at 

me; 
And  I  heap  her  arms  with  lilac  from  the  lilac 

tree; 
And  a  golden  light  is  welling,  and  a  golden 

peace  is  dwelling, 
And  a  thousand  birds  are  telling  how  it's  good 

to  be. 
And  what  are  pouting  lips  for  if  they  can't  be 

kissed? 
And  I've  filled  her  arms  with  blossom  so  she 

can't  resist; 
And  the  cows  are  sadly  straying,  and  her  mother 

must  be  saying 
That    Yvonne    is    long    delaying  .  .  .  God/ 

How  close  that  missed/ 


A  nice  polite  reminder  that  the  Boche  are  nigh; 
That  we're  here  to  fight  like  devils,   and  if 
need-be  die; 

65 


MILKING  TIME 

iThat  from  kissing  pretty  wenches  to  the  fran- 
tic firing-benches 

Of  the  battered,  tattered  trenches  is  a  far,  far 
cry. 

!Yet  still  I'm  sitting  dreaming  in  the  glare  and 
grime; 

And  once  again  Fm  hearing  of  them  church- 
bells  chime; 

And  how  I  wonder  whether  in  the  golden  sum- 
mer weather 

[We  will  fetch  the  cows  together  when  it's  milk- 
ing time.  .  .  . 
(English  voice,  months  later)  :  — 

"  Ow  Bill!     A  rottin'  Frenchy.     Whew!     'E 
ain't  'arf  prime  J' 


66 


YOUNG  FELLOW  MY  LAD 

**  Where  are  you  going,  Young  Fellow  My  Lad, 

On  this  glittering  morn  of  May?  " 

"  Fm  going  to  join  the  Colours,  Dad; 

They're  looking  for  men,  they  say/' 

"  But  you're  only  a  boy.  Young  Fellow  My  Lad; 

You  aren't  obliged  to  go." 

**  Fm  seventeen  and  a  quarter,  Dad, 

And  ever  so  strong,  you  know." 

"  So  you're  off  to  France,  Young  Fellow  My 

Lad, 
And  you're  looking  so  fit  and  bright." 
"  Fm  terribly  sorry  to  leave  you.  Dad, 
But  I  feel  that  Fm  doing  right." 
*'  God  bless  you  and  keep  you,  Young  Fellow 

My  Lad, 
You're  all  of  my  life,  you  know." 
'*^  Don't  worry.     FU  soon  be  back,  dear  Dad, 
And  Fm  awfully  proud  to  go." 


67 


YOUNG  FELLOW  MY  LAD 

"  Why  don't  you  write,  Young  Fellow  My  Lad? 

I  watch  for  the  post  each  day; 

And  I  miss  you  so,  and  Tm  awfully  sad. 

And  it's  months  since  you  went  away. 

And  IVe  had  the  fire  in  the  parlour  lit, 

And  I'm  keeping  it  burning  bright 

Till  my  boy  comes  home ;  and  here  I  sit 

Into  the  quiet  night." 

**  What  is  the  matter,  Young  Fellow  My  Lad? 

No  letter  again  to-day. 

Why  did  the  postman  look  so  sad. 

And  sigh  as  he  turned  away? 

I  hear  them  tell  that  we've  gained  new  ground, 

But  a  terrible  price  we've  paid : 

God  grant,  my  boy,  that  you're  safe  and  sound; 

But  oh  I'm  afraid,  afraid." 


68 


YOUNG  FELLOW  MY  LAD 

''  TheyVe  told  me  the  truth,  Young  Fellow  My 

Lad: 
You'll  never  come  back  again: 
(Oh  God!  the  dreams  and  the  dreams  Vve  had, 
And  the  hopes  Vve  nursed  in  vain!) 
For  you  passed  in  the  night,  Young  Fellow  My 

Lad, 
And  you  proved  in  the  cruel  test 
Of  the  screaming  shell  and  the  battle  hell 
That  my  boy  was  one  of  the  best. 

*'  So  you'll  live,  you'll  live.  Young  Fellow  My 

Lad, 
In  the  gleam  of  the  evening  star. 
In  the  wood-note  wild  and  the  laugh  of  the 

child. 
In  all  sweet  things  that  are. 
And  you'll  never  die,  my  wonderful  boy, 
While  life  is  noble  and  true; 
For  all  our  beauty  and  hope  and  joy 
We  will  owe  to  our  lads  like  you." 


69 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SANDBAGS 

No,  Bill,  Fm  not  a-spooning  out  no  patriotic 

tosh 
(The  cove  be'ind  the  sandbags  ain't  a  death-or- 

glory  cuss). 
And  though  I  strafes  'em  good  and  'ard  I  doesn't 

'ate  the  Boche, 
I  guess  they're  mostly  decent,  just  the  same  as 

most  of  us. 
I  guess  they  loves  their  'omes  and  kids  as  much 

as  you  or  me; 
And  just  the  same  as  you  or  me  they'd  rather 

shake  than  fight; 
And  if  we'd  'appened  to  be  born  at  Berlin-on- 

the-Spree, 
We'd  be  out  there  with  'Ans  and  Fritz,  dead 

sure  that  we  was  right. 

A-standin'  up  to  the  sandbags 
It's  funny  the  thoughts  wot  come ; 
Starin'  into  the  darkness, 
70 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SANDBAGS 

'Earin'  the  bullets  'um  ; 

{Zing!     Zip!     Ping!     Rip! 

^Ark  ^ow  the  bullets  'um!) 

A-leanin'  against  the  sandbags 

Wiv  me  rifle  under  me  ear, 

Oh,  IVe  'ad  more  thoughts  on  a  sentry-go 

Than  I  used  to  'ave  in  a  year. 

I  wonder.  Bill,  if  'Ans  and  Fritz  is  wonderin' 

like  me 
Wot's  at  the  bottom  of  it  all?     Wot  all  the 

slaughter's  for? 
'E  thinks  'e's  right  (of  course  'e  ain't)  but  this 

we  both  agree. 
If  them  as  made  it  'ad  to  fight,  there  wouldn't  be 

no  war. 
If  them  as  lies  in  feather  beds  while  we  kips  in 

the  mud; 
If  them  as  makes  their  fortoons  while  we  fights 

for  'em  like  'ell; 
If  them  as  slings  their  pot  of  ink  just  'ad  to  sling 

their  blood : 
By  Crust!     I'm  thinkin'  there  'ud  be  another 

tale  to  tell. 

Shiverin'  up  to  the  sandbags. 
With  a  hicicle  'stead  of  a  spine, 
71 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SANDBAGS 

Don't  it  seem  funny  the  things  you  think 

'Ere  in  the  firin'  line : 

{Whee!     Whut!     Ziz!     Zut! 

Lord!     'Ow  the  bullets  whine!) 

Hunkerin'  down  when  a  star-shell 

Cracks  in  a  sputter  of  light, 

You  can  jaw  to  yer  soul  by  the  sandbags 

Most  any  old  time  o'  night. 


They  talks  o'  England's  glory  and  a-'oldin'  of 

our  trade, 
Of  Empire  and  'igh  destiny  until  we're  fair  flim- 
flammed; 
But  If  it's  for  the  likes  o'  that  that  bloody  war 

is  made, 
Then  wot  I  say  is:     Empire  and  'igh  destiny  be 

damned ! 
There's  only  one  good  cause.   Bill,   for  poor 

blokes  like  us  to  fight : 
That's  self-defence,  for  'earth  and  'ome,  and 

them  that  bears  our  name ; 
And  that's  wot  I'm  a-doin'  by  the  sandbags  'ere 

to-night.   .  .  . 
But  Fritz  out  there  will  tell  you  'e's  a-doin'  of 

the  same. 

^2 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SANDBAGS 

Starin'  over  the  sandbags, 
Sick  of  the  'ole  damn  thing; 
Firin'  to  keep  meself  awake, 
'Earin'  the  bullets  sing. 
{Hiss!     Twanff!     Tsing!     Pang! 
Saucy  the  bullets  sing,) 
Dreamin'  'ere  by  the  sandbags 
Of  a  day  when  war  will  cease, 
When  'Ans  and  Fritz  and  Bill  and  me 
Will  clink  our  mugs  in  fraternity, 
And  the  Brotherhood  of  Labour  will  be 
The  Brotherhood  o  -f  Peace. 


73 


ON  THE  WIRE 

O  God,  take  the  sun  from  the  sky ! 

It's  burning  me,  scorching  me  up. 

God,  can't  You  hear  my  cry? 

Water!     A  poor^  little  cup! 

It's  laughing,  the  cursed  sun! 

See  how  it  swells  and  swells 

Fierce  as  a  hundred  hells ! 

God,  will  it  never  have  done? 

It's  searing  the  flesh  on  my  bones; 

It's  beating  with  hammers  red 

My  eyeballs  into  my  head; 

It's  parching  my  very  moans. 

See !     It's  the  size  of  the  sky, 

And  the  sky  is  a  torrent  of  fire. 

Foaming  on  me  as  I  lie 

Here  on  the  wire  .  .  .  the  wire.  .  .  . 

Of  the  thousands  that  wheeze  and  hum 
Heedlessly  over  my  head. 
Why  can't  a  bullet  come. 
Pierce  to  my  brain  instead, 
74 


ON  THE  WIRE 

Blacken  forever  my  brain, 
Finish  forever  my  pain? 
Here  in  the  hellish  glare 
Why  must  I  suffer  so  ? 
Is  it  God  doesn't  care? 
Is  it  God  doesn't  know? 
Oh,  to  be  killed  outright. 
Clean  in  the  clash  of  the  fight! 
That  is  a  golden  death. 
That  is  a  boon;  but  this  .   .  . 
Drawing  an  anguished  breath 
Under  a  hot  abyss. 
Under  a  stooping  sky 
Of  seething,  sulphurous  fire. 
Scorching  me  up  as  I  lie 
Here  on  the  wire  .  .  .  the  wire. 

Hasten,  O  God,  Thy  night ! 
Hide  from  my  eyes  the  sight 
Of  the  body  I  stare  and  see 
Shattered  so  hideously. 
I  can't  believe  that  it's  mine. 
My  body  was  white  and  sweet. 
Flawless  and  fair  and  fine. 
Shapely  from  head  to  feet; 
Oh  no,  I  can  never  be 
75 


ON  THE  WIRE 

The  thing  of  horror  I  see 

Under  the  rifle  fire, 

Trussed  on  the  wire  .  .  .  the  wire. 

Of  night  and  of  death  I  dream; 
Night  that  will  bring  me  peace, 
Coolness  and  starry  gleam, 
Stillness  and  death's  release : 
Ages  and  ages  have  passed, — » 
Lo  !  it  is  night  at  last. 
Night!  but  the  guns  roar  out. 
Night!  but  the  hosts  attack. 
Red  and  yellow  and  black 
Geysers  of  doom  upspout. 
Silver  and  green  and  red 
Star-shells  hover  and  spread. 
Yonder  off  to  the  right 
Fiercely  kindles  the  fight ; 
Roaring  near  and  more  near, 
Thundering  now  in  my  ear ; 
Close  to  me,  close  .  .  .  Oh,  hark! 
Someone  moans  in  the  dark. 
I  hear,  but  I  cannot  see, 
I  hear  as  the  rest  retire. 
Someone  Is  caught  like  me. 
Caught  on  the  wire  .  .  .  the  wire.  . 
76 


ON  THE  WIRE 

Again  the  shuddering  dawn, 
Weird  and  wicked  and  wan ; 
Again,  and  I've  not  yet  gone. 
The  man  whom  I  heard  is  dead. 
Now  I  can  understand: 
A  bullet  hole  in  his  head, 
A  pistol  gripped  in  his  hand. 
Well,  he  knew  what  to  do, — 
Yes,  and  now  I  know  too.  .  .  . 

Hark  the  resentful  guns ! 
Oh,  how  thankful  am  I 
To  think  my  beloved  ones 
Will  never  know  how  I  die ! 
IVe  suffered  more  than  my  share; 
Fm  shattered  beyond  repair; 
I've  fought  like  a  man  the  fight, 
And  now  I  demand  the  right 
(God I  how  his  fingers  cling!) 
To  do  without  shame  this  thing. 
Good!  there's  a  bullet  still; 
Now  I'm  ready  to  fire ; 
Blame  me,  God,  if  You  will. 
Here  on  the  wire  .  .  .  the  wire.  . 


77 


BILL'S  GRAVE 

rm  gatherin'  flowers  by  the  wayside  to  lay  on 

the  grave  of  BUI; 
I've  sneaked  away  from  the  billet,  'cause  Jim 

wouldn't  understand; 
'E'd  call  me  a  silly  fat'ead,  and  larf  till  it  made 

'im  ill, 
To  see  me  'ere  in  the  cornfield,  wiv  a  big  bookay 

in  me  'and. 


For  Jim  and  me  we  are  rough  uns,  but  Bill  was 

one  o'  the  best; 
We  'listed  and  learned  together  to  larf  at  the 

wust  wot  comes; 
Then  Bill  copped  a  packet  proper,  and  took  'is 

departure  West, 
So  sudden  'e  'adn't  a  minit  to  say  good-bye  to 

'is  chums. 

78 


BILL'S  GRAVE 

And  they  took  me  to  where  'e  was  planted,  a 

sort  of  a  measly  mound, 
And,  thinks  I,  'ow  Bill  would  be  tickled,  bem'  so 

soft  and  queer, 
If  I  gathered  a  bunch  o'  them  wild-flowers,  and 

sort  of  arranged  them  round 
Like  a  kind  of  a  bloody  headpiece  .  .  .  and 

that's  the  reason  I'm  'ere. 

But  not  for  the  love  of'glory  I  wouldn't  'ave  Jim 

to  know. 
'E'd  call  me  a  slobberin'  Cissy,  and  larf  till  'is 

sides  was  sore; 
I'd  'ave  larfed  at  meself  too,  it  isn't  so  long 

ago; 
But  some'ow  it  changes  a  feller,  'avin'  a  taste  o' 

war. 

It  'elps  a  man  to  be  'elpful,  to  know  wot  'is  pals 

is  wc«-th 
(Them  golden  poppies  is  blazin'  like  lamps  some 

fairy  'as  lit)  ; 
I'm  fond  o'  them  big  white  dysies.  .  .  .  Now 

Jim's  o'  the  salt  o'  the  earth ; 
But  'e  'as  got  a  tongue  wot's  a  terror,  and  'e 

ain't  sentimental  a  bit. 
79 


BILL'S  GRAVE 

I  likes  them  blue  chaps  wot's  'idin'  so.  shylike 

among  the  corn. 
Won't  Bill  be  glad!     We  was  alius  thicker  'n 

thieves,  us  three. 
Why!    'Oo's  that  singin'  so  'earty?    Jim!    And 

as  sure  as  I'm  born 
'E's  there  In  the  giddy  cornfields,  a-gatherin' 

flowers  like  me. 


Quick !     Drop  me  posy  be'ind  me.     I  watches 

'im  for  a  while, 
Then  I  says :    *'  Wot  'o,  there,  Chummy !    Wot 

price  the  little  bookay?  " 
And  'e  starts  like  a  bloke  wot's  guilty,  and^'e 

says  with  a  sheepish  smile : 
**  She's  a  bit  of  orl  right,  the  widder  wot  keeps 

the  estamlnay." 


So  'e  goes  away  In  a  'urry,  and  I  wishes  'Im 

best  o'  luck. 
And  I  picks  up  me  bunch  o'  wUd-flowers,  and  the 

light's  gettin'  sorto  dim, 
-/  80 


BILL'S  GRAVE 

When  I  makes  me  way  to  the  boneyard,  and 
...  I  stares  like  a  man  wot's  stuck, 

For  wot  do  I  see?  BilFs  grave-mound  strewn 
with  the  flowers  of  Jim. 

Of  course  I  won't  never  tell  'im,  bein'  a  tactical 

lad; 
And  Jim  parley-voos  to  the  widder:     "  Trez 

beans,  lamoor;  compree?" 
Oh,  'e'd  die  of  shame  if  'e  knew  I  knew;  but  say ! 

won't  Bill  be  glad 
When  'e  stares  through  the  bleedin'  clods  and 

sees  the  blossoms  of  Jim  and  me? 


8i 


JEAN  DESPREZ 

Oh  ye  whose  hearts  are  resonant,  and  ring  to 

War's  romance, 
Hear  ye  the  story  of  a  boy,  a  peasant  boy  of 

France ; 
A  lad  uncouth  and  warped  with  toil,  yet  who, 

when  trial  came. 
Could  feel  within  his  soul  upleap  and  soar  the 

sacred  flame; 
Could  stand  upright,  and  scorn  and  smite,  as 

only  heroes  may : 
Oh,  harken !     Let  me  try  to  tell  the  tale  of  Jean 

Desprez. 

With  fire   and  sword  the  Teuton  horde  was 

ravaging  the  land. 
And  there  was  darkness  and  despair,  grim  death 

on  every  hand ; 
Red  fields  of  slaughter  sloping  down  to  ruin's 

black  abyss ; 

82 


JEAN  DESPREZ 

The  wolves  of  war  ran  evil-fanged,  and  little  did 

they  miss. 
And  on  they  came  with  fear  and  flame,  to  burn 

and  loot  and  slay, 
Until  they  reached  the  red-roofed  croft,  the 

home  of  Jean  Desprez. 


*'  Rout  out  the  village,  one  and  all!  "  the  Uhlan 

Captain  said. 
*^  Behold  I     Some  hand  has  fired  a  shot.     My 

trumpeter  is  dead. 
Now  shall  they  Prussian  vengeance  know;  now 

shall  they  rue  the  day. 
For  by  this  sacred  German  slain,  ten  of  these 

dogs  shall  pay." 
They  drove  the  cowering  peasants  forth,  women 

and  babes  and  men, 
And  from  the  last,  with  many  a  jeer,  the  Cap- 
tain chose  he  ten ; 
Ten  simple   peasants,   bowed  with   toil;   they 

stood,  they  knew  not  why, 
Against  the  grey  wall  of  the  church,  hearing 

their  children  cry ; 

83 


JEAN  DESPREZ 

Hearing  their  wives  and  mothers  wail,  with  faces 

dazed  they  stood. 
A   moment    only.   .  .  .  Ready!     Fire!     They 

weltered  in  their  blood. 


But  there  was  one  who  gazed  unseen,  who  heard 
the  frenzied  cries, 

Who  saw  these  men  in  sabots  fall  before  their 
children's  eyes; 

A  Zouave  wounded  in  a  ditch,  and  knowing 
death  was  nigh, 

He  laughed  with  joy:  ''Ah!  here  is  where  I 
settle  ere  I  die." 

He  clutched  his  rifle  once  again,  and  long  he 
aimed  and  well.  ... 

A  shot !  Beside  his  victims  ten  the  Uhlan  Cap- 
tain fell. 


They  dragged  the  wounded  Zouave  out;  their 

rage  was  like  a  flame. 
With  bayonets  they  pinned  him  down,  until  their 

Major  came. 
A  blonde,  full-blooded  man  he  was,  and  arrogant 

of  eye ; 

84 


JEAN  DESPREZ 

He  stared  to  see  with  shattered  skull  his  fa- 
vourite Captain  lie. 

**  Nay,  do  not  finish  him  so  quick,  this  foreign 
swine,''  he  cried; 

'*  Go  nail  him  to  the  big  church  door:  he  shall 
be  crucified." 


With  bayonets   through  hands   and   feet  they 

nailed  the  Zouave  there. 
And  there  was  anguish  in  his  eyes,  and  horror 

in  his  stare; 
*' Water!     A  single  drop!"   he  moaned;  but 

how  they  jeered  at  him, 
And  mocked  him  with  an  empty  cup,  and  saw 

his  sight  grow  dim ; 
And  as  in  agony  of  death  with  blood  his  lips 

were  wet. 
The  Prussian  Major  gaily  laughed,  and  lit  a 

cigarette. 


But  mid  the  white-faced  villagers  who  cowered 

in  horror  by. 
Was  one  who  saw  the  woeful  sight,  who  heard 

the  woeful  cry: 

85 


JEAN  DESPREZ 

"  Water !     One  little  drop,  I  beg !     For  love  of 

Christ  who  died.  .  .  .'' 
It  was  the  little  Jean  Desprez  who  turned  and 

stole  aside; 
It  was  the  little  bare-foot  boy  who  came  with 

cup  abrim 
And  walked  up  to  the  dying  man,  and  gave  the 

drink  to  him. 


A  roar  of  rage !     They  seize  the  boy;  they  tear 

him  fast  away. 
The  Prussian  Major  swings  around;  no  longer 

is  he  gay. 
His  teeth  are  wolfishly  agleam;  his  face  all  dark 

with  spite : 
"  Go,  shoot  the  brat,"  he  snarls,  *'  that  dare 

defy  our  Prussian  might. 
Yet  stay!  I  have  another  thought.     PU  kindly 

be,  and  spare; 
Quick!  give  the  lad  a  rifle  charged,  and  set  him 

squarely  there. 
And  bid  him  shoot,  and  shoot  to  kill.     Haste ! 

Make  him  understand 
The  dying  dog  he  fain  would  save  shall  perish 

by  his  hand. 

86 


JEAN  DESPREZ 

And  all  his  kindred  they  shall  see,  and  all  shall 

curse  his  name, 
Who  bought  his  life  at  such  a  cost,  the  price  of 

death  and  shame." 


They  brought  the  boy,  wild-eyed  with  fear;  they 

made  him  understand; 
They  stood  him  by  the  dying  man,  a  rifle  in  his 

hand. 
*'  Make  haste!  "  said  they;  "  the  time  is  short, 

and  you  must  kill  or  die." 
The  Major  puffed  his  cigarette,  amusement  in 

his  eye. 
And  then  the  dying  Zouave  heard,  and  raised  his 

weary  head: 
**  Shoot,  son,  'twill  be  the  best  for  both;  shoot 

swift  and  straight,"  he  said. 
**  Fire  first  and  last,  and  do  not  flinch;  for  lost 

to  hope  am  I; 
And   I   will  murmur:     Vive  La  France!  and 

bless  you  ere  I  die." 


Half-blind  with  blows  the  boy  stood  there;  he 
seemed  to  swoon  and  sway; 
87 


JEAN  DESPREZ 

Then  in  that  moment  woke  the  soul  of  little  Jean 

Desprez. 
He  saw  the  woods  go  sheening  down;  the  larks 

were  singing  clear ; 
And  oh!  the  scents  and  sounds  of  spring,  how 

sweet  they  were!  how  dear! 
He  felt  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay,  a  soft  breeze 

fanned  his  brow; 
O  God!  the  paths  of  peace  and  toil!     How 

precious  were  they  now ! 
The  summer  days  and  summer  ways,  how  bright 

with  hope  and  bliss ! 
The  autumn  such  a  dream  of  gold  .  .  .  and  all 

must  end  in  this: 
This  shining  rifle  in  his  hand,  that  shambles  all 

around; 
The  Zouave  there  with  dying  glare;  the  blood 

upon  the  ground; 
The  brutal  faces  round  him  ringed,  the  evil  eyes 

aflame; 
That  Prussian  bully  standing  by,  as  if  he  watched 

a  game. 
*'  Make  haste  and  shoot,"  the  Major  sneered; 

"  a  minute  more  I  give; 
A  minute  more  to  kill  your  friend,  if  you  your- 
self would  live." 

88 


JEAN  DESPREZ 

They  only  saw  a  bare-foot  boy,  with  blanched 

and  twitching  face; 
They  did  not  see  within  his  eyes  the  glory  of  his 

race; 
The  glory  of  a  million  men  who  for  fair  France 

have  died, 
The  splendour  of  self-sacrifice  that  will  not  be 

denied. 
Yet  ...  he  was  but  a  peasant  lad,  and  oh  1  but 

life  was  sweet.  .  .  . 
"  Your  niinute's  nearly  gone,  my  lad,''  he  heard 

a  voice  repeat. 
"  Shoot!     Shoot!  "  the  dying  Zouave  moaned;, 

*^  Shoot!     Shoot!  "  the  soldiers  said. 
Then  Jean  Desprez  reached  out  and  shot  .  .  . 

the  Prussian  Major  dead! 


89 


GOING  HOME 

rm  goin'  'ome  to  Blighty  —  ain't  I  glad  to  'ave 

the  chance ! 
I'm  loaded  up  wiv  fightin',  and  I've  'ad  my  fill 

o'  France; 
I'm  feelin'  so  excited-like,  I  want  to  sing  and 

dance, 
For  I'm  goin'  'ome  to  Blighty  in  the  mawnin'. 

I'm  goin'  'ome  to  Blighty:  can  you  wonder  as 

I'm  gay? 
I've  got  a  wound  I  wouldn't  sell  for  'alf  a  year 

o'  pay; 
A  harm  that's  mashed  to  jelly  in  the  nicest  sort 

o'  way, 
For  it  takes  me  'ome  to  Blighty  in  the  mawnin'. 

'Ow  everlastin'  keen  I  was  on  gettin'  to  the 

front ! 
I'd  ginger  for  a  dozen,  and  I  'elped  to  bear  the 

brunt ; 
But  Cheese  and  Crust!     I'm  crazy,  now  I've 
done  me  little  stunt, 
To  sniff  the  air  of  Blighty  in  the  mawnin'. 
90 


I 


GOING  HOME 

IVe  looked  upon  the  wine  that's  white,  and  on 

the  wine  that's  red; 
IVe  looked  on  cider  flowin',  till  it  fairly  turned 

me  'ead; 
But  oh,  the  finest  scoff  will  be,  when  all  is  done 

and  said, 
A  pint  o'  Bass  in  Blighty  in  the  mawnin'. 

I'm  goin'  back  to  Blighty,  which  I  left  to  strafe 

the'Un; 
IVe  fought  in  bloody  battles,  and  IVe  'ad  a  'eap 

of  fun; 
But  now  me  flipper's  busted,  and  I  think  me 

dooty's  done, 
And  ril  kiss  me  gel  In  Blighty  In  the  mawnin'. 

Oh,  there  be  furrin'  lands  to  see,  and  some  of  'em 

be  fine ; 
And  there  be  furrin'  gels  to  kiss,  and  scented 

furrin'  wine ; 
But  there's  no  land  like  England,  and  no  other 
gel  like  mine : 
Thank  Gawd  for  dear  old  Blighty  In  the 
mawnin'. 


91 


COCOTTE 

When  a  girl's  sixteen,  and  as  poor  as  she's  pretty, 
And  she  hasn't  a  friend  and  she  hasn't  a  home. 
Heigh-ho !     She's  as  safe  in  Paris  city 
As  a  lamb  night-strayed  where  the  wild  wolves 

roam; 
And  that  was  I ;  oh.  It's  seven  years  now 
(Some  water's  run  down  the  Seine  since  then), 
And  I've  almost  forgotten  the  pangs  and  the 

tears  now. 
And  I've  almost  taken  the  measure  of  men. 

Oh,  I  found  me  a  lover  who  loved  me  only, 

Artist  and  poet,  and  almost  a  boy. 

And  my  heart  was  bruised,  and  my  life  was 

lonely. 
And  him  I  adored  with  a  wonderful  joy. 
If  he'd  come  to  me  with  his  pockets  empty, 
How  we'd  have  laughed  in  a  garret  gay! 
But  he  was  rich,  and  in  radiant  plenty 
We  lived  in  a  villa  at  Viroflay. 
Then  came  the  War,  and  of  bliss  bereft  me; 
Then  came  the  call,  and  he  went  away; 

92 


COCOTTE 

All  that  he  had  in  the  world  he  left  me, 
With  the  rose-wreathed  villa  at  Viroflay. 
Then  came  the  news  and  the  tragic  story: 
My  hero,  my  splendid  lover  was  dead, 
Sword  in  hand  on  the  field  of  glory, 
And  he  died  with  my  name  on  his  lips,  they  said. 

So  here  am  I  in  my  widow's  mourning, 
The  weeds  IVe  really  no  right  to  wear; 
And  women  fix  me  with  eyes  of  scorning, 
Call  me  *^  cocotte,"  but  I  do  not  care. 
And  men  look  at  me  with  eyes  that  borrow 
The  brightness  of  love,  but  I  turn  away; 
Alone,  say  I,  I  will  live  with  Sorrow, 
In  my  little  villa  at  Viroflay. 

And  lo !     Tm  living  alone  with  Pity, 

And  they  say  that  pity  from  love's  not  far; 

Let  me  tell  you  all :  last  week  in  the  city 

I  took  the  metro  at  Saint  Lazare; 

And  the  carriage  was  crowded  to  overflowing, 

And  when  there  entered  at  Chateaudun 

Two  wounded  poilus  with  medals  showing, 

I  eagerly  gave  my  seat  to  one. 

You   should   have   seen   them:   they'd  slipped 
death's  clutches, 

93 


COCOTTE 

But  sadder  a  sight  you  will  rarely  find; 

One  had  a  leg  off  and  walked  on  crutches, 

The  other,  a  bit  of  a  boy,  was  blind. 

And  they  both  sat  down,  and  the  lad  was  trying 

To  grope  his  way  as  a  blind  man  tries; 

And  half  of  the  women  around  were  crying. 

And  some  of  the  men  had  tears  in  their  eyes. 

How  he  stirred  me,  this  blind  boy,  clinging 
Just  like  a  child  to  his  crippled  chum. 
But  I  did  not  cry.     Oh  no ;  a  singing 
Came  to  my  heart  for  a  year  so  dumb, 
Then  I  knew  that  at  three-and-twenty 
There  is  wonderful  work  to  be  done. 
Comfort  and  kindness  and  joy  in  plenty. 
Peace  and  light  and  love  to  be  won. 

Oh,  thought  I,  could  mine  eyes  be  given 
To  one  who  will  live  In  the  dark  alway ! 
To    love    and    to    serve  — ^twould    make    life 

Heaven 
Here  In  my  villa  at  VIroflay. 
So  I  left  my  poilus:  and  now  you  wonder 
Why  to-day  I  am  so  elate.  .  .  . 
Look !     In  the  glory  of  sunshine  yonder 
They're  bringing  my  blind  boy  in  at  the  gate. 
94 


MY  BAY'NIT 

When  first  I  left  Blighty  they  gave  me  a  bay'nit 
And  told  me  it  'ad  to  be  smothered  wiv  gore ; 
But  blimey !     I  'aven't  been  able  to  stain  it, 
So  far  as  IVe  gone  wiv  the  vintage  of  war. 
For  ain't  it  a  fraud!  when  a  Boche  and  yours 

truly 
Gits  Into  a  mix  in  the  grit  and  the  grime, 
'E  jerks  up  'is  'ands  wiv  a  yell  and  'e's  duly 
Part  of  me  outfit  every  time. 

Left,  right,  Hans  and  Fritz ! 
Goose  step,  keep  up  yer  mits ! 
Oh  my,     Ain't  it  a  shyme  I 
Part  of  me  outfit  every  time. 

At  toasting  a  biscuit  me  bay'nit's  a  dandy; 
I've  used  it  to  open  a  bully  beef  can; 
For  pokin'  the  fire  it  comes  in  werry  'andy; 
For  any  old  thing  but  for  stickin'  a  man. 
'Ow   often    I've    said:     '* 'Ere,    I'm    goin'    to 
press  you 

95 


MY  BAY'NIT 

Into  a  'Un  till  you're  seasoned  for  prime," 
And  fiercely  I  rushes  to  do  It,  but  bless  you ! 

Part  of  me  outfit  every  time. 

Lor,  yus;  don^t  they  look  glad? 
Right  O!     'OwlKamerad! 
Oh  my,  always  the  syme ! 
Part  of  me  outfit  every  time. 

I'm  'untin'  for  someone  to  christen  me  bay'nit. 

Some  nice  juicy  Chewton  wot's  fightin'  In  France ; 

I'm  fairly  down-'earted — 'ow  can  yer  explain 
it? 

I  keeps  gettin'  prisoners  every  chance. 

As  soon  as  they  sees  me  they  ups  and  surrenders. 

Extended  like  monkeys  wot's  tryin'  to  climb; 

And    I    uses    me    bay'nit  —  to    slit    their    sus- 
penders — 

Part  of  me  outfit  every  time. 

Four  'Uns;  lor,  wot  a  bag! 
'Ere,  Fritz,  sample  a  fag! 
Oh  my,  ain't  it  a  gyme ! 
Part  of  me  outfit  every  time. 


96 


CARRY  ON! 

It's  easy  to  fight  when  everything's  right, 

And  you're  mad  with  the  thrill  and  the  glory; 

It's  easy  to  cheer  when  victory's  near, 

And  wallow  in  fields  that  are  gory. 

It's  a  different  song  when  everything's  wrong, 

When  you're  feeling  infernally  mortal; 

When  it's  ten  against  one,  and  hope  there  is 

none, 
Buck  up,  little  soldier,  and  chortle : 


Carry  on !     Carry  on ! 
There  isn't  much  punch  in  your  blow. 
.You're  glaring  and  staring  and  hitting  out  blind; 
You're  muddy  and  bloody,  but  never  you  mind. 
Carry  on !     Carry  on ! 
You  haven't  the  ghost  of  a  show. 
It's  looking  like  death,  but  while  you've  a  breath, 
Carry  on,  my  son!     Carry  on! 
97 


CARRY  ON! 

And  so  in  the  strife  of  the  battle  of  life 
It's  easy  to  fight  when  you're  winning; 
It's  easy  to  slave,  and  starve  and  be  brave, 
When  the  dawn  of  success  Is  beginning. 
But  the  man  who  can  meet  despair  and  defeat 
With  a  cheer,  there's  the  man  of  God's  choos- 
ing; 
The  man  who  can  fight  to  Heaven's  own  height 
Is  the  man  who  can  fight  when  he's  losing. 

Carry  on!     Carry  on! 
Things  never  were  looming  so  black. 
But  show  that  you  haven't  a  cowardly  streak. 
And  though  you're  unlucky  you  never  are  weak. 
Carry  on !     Carry  on ! 
Brace  up  for  another  attack. 
It's  looking  like  hell,  but  —  you  never  can  tell : 
Carry  on,  old  man  I     Carry  on ! 

There  are  some  who  drift  out  in  the  deserts  of 

doubt. 
And  some  who  in  brutishness  wallow ; 
There  are  others,  I  know,  who  in  piety  go 
Because  of  a  Heaven  to  follow. 
But  to  labour  with  zest,  and  to  give  of  your  best, 
98 


CARRY  ON! 

For  the  sweetness  and  joy  of  the  giving; 

To  help  folks  along  with  a  hand  and  a  song; 

Why,  there's  the  real  sunshine  of  living. 

Carry  on !     Carry  on ! 
Fight  the  good  fight  and  true ; 
Believe  in  your  mission,  greet  life  with  a  cheer; 
There's  big  work  to  do,  and  that's  why  you 
are  here. 
Carry  on!     Carry  on  I 
Let  the  world  be  the  better  for  you ; 
And  at  last  when  you  die,  let  this  be  your  cry: 
Carry  on,  my  soul!     Carry  on! 


99 


OVER  THE  PARAPET 

All  day  long  when  the  shells  sail  over 
I  stand  at  the  sandbags  and  take  my  chance ; 
But  at  night,  at  night  Tm  a  reckless  rover, 
And  over  the  parapet  gleams  Romance. 
Romance !     Romance  I     How  IVe  dreamed  it, 

writing 
Dreary  old  records  of  money  and  mart. 
Me  with  my  head  chuckful  of  fighting 
And  the  blood  of  vikings  to  thrill  my  heart. 

But  little  I  thought  that  my  time  was  coming, 
Sudden  and  splendid,  supreme  and  soon; 
And  here  I  am  with  the  bullets  humming 
As  I  crawl  and  I  curse  the  light  of  the  moon. 
Out  alone,  for  adventure  thirsting. 
Out  in  mysterious  No  Man's  Land; 
Prone  with  the  dead  when  a  star-shell,  bursting, 
Flares  on  the  horrors  on  every  hand. 
There  are  ruby  stars  and  they  drip  and  wiggle ; 
And  the  grasses  gleam  in  a  light  blood-red; 
There  are  emerald  stars,  and  their  tails  they 
wriggle, 

lOO 


OVER  THE  PARAPET 

And  ghastly  they  glare  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 
But  the  worst  of  all  are  the  stars  of  whiteness, 
That  spill  In  a  pool  of  pearly  flame, 
Pretty  as  gems  In  their  silver  brightness, 
And  etching  a  man  for  a  bullet's  aim. 

Yet  oh.  It's  great  to  be  here  with  danger. 
Here  In  the  weird,  death-pregnant  dark. 
In  the  devil's  pasture  a  stealthy  ranger. 
When  the  moon  Is  decently  hiding.     Hark  I 
What  was  that?     Was  It  just  the  shiver 
Of  an  eerie  wind  or  a  clammy  hand? 
The  rustle  of  grass,  or  the  passing  quiver 
Of  one  of  the  ghosts  of  No  Man's  Land? 

It's  only  at  night  when  the  ghosts  awaken, 
And  gibber  and  whisper  horrible  things; 
For  to  every  foot  of  this  God-forsaken 
Zone  of  jeopard  some  horror  clings. 
Ugh!     What  was  that?     It  felt  like  a  jelly, 
That  flattlsh  mound  In  the  noisome  grass; 
You  three  big  rats  running  free  of  its  belly. 
Out  of  my  way  and  let  me  pass ! 

But  If  there's  horror,  there's  beauty,  wonder; 
The  trench  lights  gleam  and  the  rockets  play* 

lOI 


OVER  THE  PARAPET 

That  flood  of  magnificent  orange  yonder 

Is  a  battery  blazing  miles  away. 

With  a  rush  and  a  singing  a  great  shell  passes; 

The  rifles  resentfully  bicker  and  brawl, 

And  here  I  crouch  in  the  dew-drenched  grasses, 

And  look  and  listen  and  love  it  all. 

God!     What  a  life!     But  I  must  make  haste 

now, 
Before  the  shadow  of  night  be  spent. 
It's  little  the  time  there  is  to  waste  now, 
If  I'd  do  the  job  for  which  I  was  sent. 
My  bombs  are  right  and  my  clippers  ready. 
And  I  wriggle  out  to  the  chosen  place. 
When    I     hear     a     rustle  .  .  .  Steady!  .  .  . 

Steady ! 
Who  am  I  staring  slap  in  the  face  ? 

There  in  the  dark  I  can  hear  him  breathing, 

A  foot  away,  and  as  still  as  death; 

And  my  heart  beats  hard,  and  my  brain  is  seeth- 
ing, 

And  I  know  he's  a  Hun  by  the  smell  of  his  breath. 

Then:  *' Will  you  surrender?"  I  whisper 
hoarsely, 

For  It's  death,  swift  death  to  utter  a  cry. 

102 


OVER  THE  PARAPET 

"  English       schweln-hund !  ''       he       murmurs 

coarsely. 
"  Then  we'll  fight  it  out  in  the  dark,"  say  !• 

So  we  grip  and  we  slip  and  we  trip  and  wrestle 
There  in  the  gutter  of  No  Man's  Land ; 
And  I  feel  my  nails  in  his  wind-pipe  nestle, 
And  he  tries  to  gouge,  but  I  bite  his  hand. 
And  he  tries  to  squeal,  but  I  squeeze  him  tighter : 
'*  Now,"  I  say,  *'  I  can  kill  you  fine ; 
But  tell  me  first,  you  Teutonic  blighter! 
Have     you     any     children?"     He     answers: 
"  Nein." 

Nine!     Well,  I  cannot  kill  such  a  father. 
So  I  tie  his  hands  and  I  leave  him  there. 
Do  I  finish  my  little  job  ?     Well,  rather ; 
And  I  get  home  safe  with  some  light  to  spare. 
Heigh-ho !  by  day  it's  just  prosy  duty. 
Doing  the  same  old  song  and  dance ; 
But  oh !  with  the  night  —  joy,  glory,  beauty: 
Over  the  parapet  —  Life,  Romance! 


103 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SOULFUL  SAM 

You  want  me  to  tell  you  a  story,  a  yarn  of  the 

firin'  line, 
Of  our  thin  red  kharki  'eroes,  out  there  where 

the  bullets  whine; 
Out  there  where  the  bombs  are  bustin',  and  the 

cannons  like  'ell-doors  slam  — 
Just  order  another  drink,  boys,  and  I'll  tell  you 

of  Soulful  Sam. 

Oh,  Sam,  he  was  never  'Ilarious,  though  I've  'ad 

some  mates  as  was  wus; 
He  'adn't  C.  B.  on  his  programme,  he  never  was 

known  to  cuss. 
For  a  card  or  a  skirt  or  a  beer-mug  he  'adn't  a 

friendly  word; 
But  when   it  came   down  to   Scriptures,   say! 

Wasn't  he  just  a  bird ! 

He  always  'ad  tracts  in  his  pocket,  the  which  he 

would  haste  to  present, 
And  though  the  fellers  would  use  them  in  ways 

that  they  never  was  meant, 
104 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SOULFUL  SAM 

I  used  to  read  'em  religious,  and  frequent  IVe 

been  impressed 
By  some  of  them  bundles  of  'oly  dope  he  carried 

around  in  his  vest. 

For  I  —  and  oh,  'ow  I  shudder  at  the  'orror  the 
word  conveys ! 

'Ave  been  —  let  me  whisper  it  'oarsely  —  a  gam- 
bler 'alf  of  me  days; 

A  gambler,  you  'ear  —  a  gambler.  It  makes 
me  wishful  to  weep, 

And  yet  'ow  it's  true,  my  brethren!  —  I'd 
rather  gamble  than  sleep. 

I've  gambled  the  'ole  Avorld  over,  from  Monte 
Carlo  to  Maine; 

From  Dawson  City  to  Dover,  from  San  Fran- 
cisco to  Spain. 

Cards!  They  'ave  been  me  ruin.  They've 
taken  me  pride  and  me  pelf. 

And  when  I'd  no  one  to  play  with  —  why,  I'd 
go  and  I'd  play  by  meself. 

And  Sam  'e  would  sit  and  watch  me,  as  I  shuf- 
fled a  greasy  deck, 

And  'e'd  say:     ''You're  bound  to  Perdition," 

And  I'd  answer :     ''  Git  off  me  neck  I  " 

105 


I 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SOULFUL  SAM 

And  that's  'ow  we  came  to  get  friendly,  though 

built  on  a  different  plan, 
Me  wot's  a  desprlte  gambler,  'im  sich  a  good 

young  man. 

But  on  to  me  tale.  Just  imagine  .  .  .  Dark- 
ness !     The  battle-front ! 

The  furious  'Uns  attackin'  I  Us  ones  a-bearin' 
the  brunt ! 

Me  crouchin'  behind  a  sandbag,  tryin'  'ard  to  keep 
calm, 

When  I  'ears  someone  singin'  a  'ymn  toon; 
be'old  I  It  Is  Soulful  Sam. 

Yes;  right  In  the  crash  of  the  combat.  In  the 
fury  of  flash  and  flame, 

'E  was  shootin'  and  singin'  serenely  as  if  'e  en- 
joyed the  same. 

And  there  in  the  'eat  of  the  battle,  as  the  'ordes 
of  demons  attacked. 

He  dipped  down  into  'is  tunic,  and  'e  'anded  me 
out  a  tract. 

Then  a  star-shell  flared,  and  I  read  it:  Oh, 
Flee  From  the  Wrath  to  Come ! 

Nice  cheerful  subject,  I  tell  yer,  when  you're 
'earin'  the  bullets  'um. 
io6 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SOULFUL  SAM 

And  before  I  'ad  time  to  thank  'im,  just  one  of 

them  bits  of  lead 
Comes  sllngin'  along  in  a  'urry,  and  it  'its  my 

partner.  .  .  .  Dead? 

No,  siree !  not  by  a  long  sight !     For  it  plugged 

'im  'ard  on  the  chest, 
Just  where  'e'd  tracts  for  a  army  corps  stowed 

away  in  'is  vest. 
On   its    mission   of   death   that   bullet    'ustled 

along,  and    it  caved 
A  'ole  in  them  tracts  to  'is  'ide,  boys  —  but  the 

life  o'  me  pal  was  saved. 

And  there  as  'e  showed  me  in  triumph,   and 

'orror  was  chokin'  me  breath, 
On  came  another  bullet  on  its  'orrible  mission  of 

death; 
On  through  the  night  it  cavorted,  seekin'  its 

'aven  of  rest. 
And  it  zipped  through  a  crack  in  the  sandbags, 

and  it  woUoped  me  bang  on  the  breast. 

Was  I  killed,  do  you  ask?    Oh  no,  boys.    Why 
am  I  sittin'  'ere 

107 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SOULFUL  SAM 

Gazin'  with  mournful  vision  at  a  mug  long 

empty  of  beer? 
With  a  throat  as  dry  as  a  —  oh,  thanky  I     I 

don't  much  mind  if  I  do. 
Beer  with  a  dash  of  'ollands,  that's  my  particular 

brew. 

Yes,  that  was  a  terrible  moment.     It  'ammered 

me  'ard  o'er  the  'eart; 
It  bowled  me  down  like  a  nine-pin,  and  I  looked 

for  the  gore  to  start; 
And  I  saw  in  the  flash  of  a  moment,  in  that 

thunder  of  hate  and  strife. 
Me  wretched  past  like  a  pitchur  —  the  sins  of  a 

gambler's  life. 

For  I  'ad  no  tracts  to  save  me,  to  thwart  that  mad 

missile's  doom; 
I  'ad  no  pious  pamphlets  to  'elp  me  to  cheat  the 

tomb; 
I  'ad  no  'oly  leaflets  to  baffle  a  bullet's  aim; 
I'd  only  —  a  deck  of  cards,  boys,  but  .  .  .  it 

seemed  to  do  just  the  same. 


io8 


ONLY  A  BOCHE 

We  brought  him  in  from  between  the  lines :  we'd 

better  have  let  him  lie; 
For  what's  the  use  of  risking  one's  skin  for  a 

tyke  that's  going  to  die? 
What's  the  use  of  tearing  him  loose  under  a 

gruelling  fire, 
When  he's  shot  in  the  head,  and  worse  than 

dead,  and  all  messed  up  on  the  wire  ? 


However,  I  say,  we  brought  him  in.     Diable! 

The  mud  was  bad; 
The  trench  was  crooked  and  greasy  and  high, 

and  oh,  what  a  time  we  had ! 
And  often  we  slipped,  and  often  we  tripped,  but 

never  he  made  a  moan ; 
And  how  we  were  wet  with  blood  and  with 

sweat !  but  we  carried  him  in  like  our  own. 
109 


ONLY  A  BOCHE 

Now  there  he  lies  in  the  dug-out  dim,  awaiting 
the  ambulance, 

And  the  doctor  shrugs  his  shoulders  at  him,  and 
remarks,  "  He  hasn't  a  chance." 

And  we  squat  and  smoke  at  our  game  of  bridge 
on  the  glistening,  straw-packed  floor, 

And  above  our  oaths  we  can  hear  his  breath  deep- 
drawn  in  a  kind  of  snore. 

For  the  dressing  station  is  long  and  low,  and 
the  candles  gutter  dim, 

And  the  mean  light  falls  on  the  cold  clay  walls 
and  our  faces  bristly  and  grim; 

And  we  flap  our  cards  on  the  lousy  straw,  and  we 
laugh  and  jibe  as  we  play. 

And  you'd  never  know  that  the  cursed  foe  was 
less  than  a  mile  away. 

As  we  con  our  cards  in  the  rancid  gloom,  op- 
pressed by  that  snoring  breath, 

You'd  never  dream  that  our  broad  roof-beam 
was  swept  by  the  broom  of  death. 

Heigh-ho!  My  turn  for  the  dummy  hand;  I 
rise  and  I  stretch  a  bit ; 

The  fetid  air  is  making  me  yawn,  and  my  ciga- 
rette's unlit, 

no 


ONLY  A  BOCHE 

So  I  go  to  the  nearest  candle  flame,  and  the  man 

we  brought  is  there, 
And  his  face  is  white  in  the  shabby  light,  and  I 

stand  at  his  feet  and  stare. 
Stand  for  awhile,  and  quietly  stare :  for  strange 

though  it  seems  to  be. 
The  dying  Boche  on  the  stretcher  there  has  a 

queer  resemblance  to  me. 

It  gives  one  a  kind  of  a  turn,  you  know,  to  come 
on  a  thing  like  that. 

It's  just  as  if  I  were  lying  there,  with  a  turban 
of  blood  for  a  hat. 

Lying  there  in  a  coat  grey-green  instead  of  a 
coat  grey-blue. 

With  one  of  my  eyes  all  shot  away,  and  my  brain 
half  tumbling  through; 

Lying  there  with  a  chest  that  heaves  like  a  bel- 
lows up  and  down. 

And  a  cheek  as  white  as  snow  on  a  grave,  and 
lips  that  are  coffee  brown. 

And  confound  him,  too  !     He  wears,  like  me,  on 

his  finger  a  wedding  ring. 
And  around  his  neck,  as  around  my  own,  by  a 

greasy  bit  of  string, 
III 


ONLY  A  BOCHE 

A  locket  hangs  with  a  woman's  face,  and  I  turn 
it  about  to  see : 

Just  as  I  thought  ...  on  the  other  side  the 
faces  of  children  three ; 

Clustered  together  cherub-like,  three  little  laugh- 
ing girls, 

With  the  usual  tiny  rosebud  mouths  and  the  usual 
silken  curls. 

*'  Zut !  "  I  say.  "  He  has  beaten  me ;  for  me,  I 
have  only  two," 

And  I  push  the  locket  beneath  his  shirt,  feel- 
ing a  little  blue. 


Oh,  it  isn't  cheerful  to  see  a  man,  the  marvellous 

work  of  God, 
Crushed  in  the  mutilation  mill,  crushed  to  a 

smeary  clod ; 
Oh,  it  isn't  cheerful  to  hear  him  moan;  but  it 

isn't  that  I  mind. 
It  isn't  the  anguish  that  goes  with  him,  it's  the 

anguish  he  leaves  behind. 
For  his  going  opens  a  tragic  door  that  gives  on  a 

world  of  pain. 
And  the  death  he  dies,  those  who  live  and  love^ 

will  die  again  and  again. 

112 


ONLY  A  BOCHE 

So  here  I  am  at  my  cards  once  more,  but  it's  kind 

of  spoiling  my  play, 
Thinking  of  those  three  brats  of  his  so  many  a 

mile  away. 
War  is  war,  and  he's  only  a  Boche,  and  we  all  of 

us  take  our  chance ; 
But  all  the  same  I'll  be  mighty  glad  when  I'm 

hearing  the  ambulance. 
One  foe  the  less,  but  all  the  same  I'm  heartily 

glad  I'm  not 
The  man  who  gave  him  his  broken  head,  the 

sniper  who  fired  the  shot. 

No   trumps  you   make   it,    I   think  you   said? 

You'll  pardon  me  if  I  err; 
For  a  moment  I  thought  of  other  things  .  .  . 

Mon  Dieu!     Quelle  vache  de  guerre. 


113 


PILGRIMS 

For  oh,  when  the  war  will  be  over 
We'll  go  and  we'll  look  for  our  dead; 
We'll  go  when  the  bee's  on  the  clover. 
And  the  plume  of  the  poppy  Is  red: 
We'll  go  when  the  year's  at  Its  gayest, 
When  meadows  are  laughing  with  flow'rs; 
And  there  where  the  crosses  are  greyest, 
We'll  seek  for  the  cross  that  Is  ours. 


For  they  cry  to  us:     Friends,  we  are  lonely, 
A-weary  the  night  and  the  day; 
But  come  in  the  blossom-time  only, 
Come  when  our  graves  will  be  gay: 
When  daffodils  all  are  a-blowing, 
And  larks  are  a-thrilling  the  skies, 
Oh,  come  with  the  hearts  of  you  glowing, 
And  the  joy  of  the  Spring  in  your  eyes. 


114 


PILGRIMS 

But  never,  oh,  never  come  sighing, 
For  ours  was  the  Splendid  Release; 
And  oh,  but  ^twas  joy  in  the  dying 
To  know  we  were  winning  you  Peace! 
So  come  when  the  valleys  are  sheening, 
And  fledged  with  the  promise  of  grain; 
And  here  where  our  graves  will  be  greening, 
Just  smile  and  be  happy  again. 

And  so,  when  the  war  will  be  over, 
We'll  seek  for  the  Wonderful  One ; 
And  maiden  will  look  for  her  lover, 
And  mother  will  look  for  her  son; 
And  there  will  be  end  to  our  grieving, 
And  gladness  will  gleam  over  loss, 
As  —  glory  beyond  all  believing ! 
We  point  .  •  .  to  a  name  on  a  cross. 


h 


115 


MY  PRISONER 

We  was  in  a  crump-'ole,  'im  and  me; 

Fightin'  wiv  our  bayonets  was  we ; 

Fightin'  'ard  as  'ell  we  was, 

Fightin'  fierce  as  fire  because 

It  was  'im  or  me  as  must  be  downed; 

'E  was  twice  as  big  as  me; 

I  was  'arf  the  weight  of  'e; 

We  was  like  a  terryer  and  a  'ound. 


'Struth !     But  'e  was  sich  a  'andsome  bloke. 

Me,  Fm  'andsome  as  a  chunk  o'  coke. 

Did  I  give  it  'im?     Not  'arf! 

Why,  it  fairly  made  me  laugh, 

'Cos  'is  bloomin'  bellows  wasn't  sound. 

Couldn't  fight  for  monkey  nuts. 

Soon  I  gets  'im  in  the  guts. 

There  'e  lies  a-floppin'  on  the  ground. 

ii6 


MY  PRISONER 

In  I  goes  to  finish  up  the  job. 
Quick  'e  throws  'is  'ands  above  'is  nob ; 
Speakin'  English  good  as  me: 
"  'Tain't  no  use  to  kill,"  says  'e; 
**  Can't  yer  tyke  me  prisoner  instead?  " 
*'  Why,  I'd  like  to,  sir,"  says  I; 
*'  But  —  yer  knows  the  reason  why : 
If  we  pokes  our  noses  out  we're  dead. 

*'  Sorry,  sir.     Then  on  the  other  'and 

(As  a  gent  like  you  must  understand), 

If  I  'olds  you  longer  'ere, 

Wiv  yer  pals  so  werry  near, 

It's  me  'oo'U  'avc  a  free  trip  to  Berlin; 

If  I  lets  yer  go  away, 

Why,  you'll  fight  another  day: 

See  the  sitooation  I  am  In. 

''  Anyway  I'll  tell  you  wot  I'll  do, 
Bein'  kind  and  seein'  as  it's  you, 
Knowin'  'ow  it's  cold,  the  feel 
Of  a  'alf  a  yard  o'  steel, 
I'll  let  yer  'ave  a  rifle  ball  instead; 
Now,  jist  think  yerself  in  luck.  .  .  . 
'Ere,  ol'  man !     You  keep  'em  stuck, 
Them  saucy  dooks  o'  yours,  above  yer  'ead.' 
117 


I 


MY  PRISONER 

'Ow  'is  mits  shot  up  it  made  me  smile ! 

'Ow  'e  seemed  to  ponder  for  a  while  I 

Then  'e  says :     *'  It  seems  a  shyme, 

Me,  a  man  wot's  known  ter  Fyme : 

Give  me  blocks  of  stone,  FU  give  yer  gods. 

Whereas,  pardon  me,  Fm  sure 

You,  my  friend,  are  still  obscure.  .  .  ." 

"  In  war,"  says  I,  '*  that  makes  no  blurry  odds." 

Then  says  'e :     *'  I've  painted  picters  too.  .  .  . 

Oh,  dear  God !     The  work  I  planned  to  do, 

And  to  think  this  is  the  end !  " 

"  'Ere,"  says  I,  *'  my  hartist  friend, 

Don't  you  give  yerself  no  f  riskin'  airs. 

Picters,  statoos,  is  that  why 

You  should  be  let  off  to  die  ? 

That  the  best  ye  done  ?    Just  say  yer  prayers." 

Once  again  'e  seems  ter  think  awhile. 
Then  'e  smiles  a  werry  'aughty  smile : 
"  Why,  no,  sir.  It's  not  the  best; 
There's  a  locket  next  me  breast, 
Picter  of  a  gel  'oo's  eyes  are  blue. 
That's  the  best  I've  done,"  says  'e. 
"  That's  me  darter,  aged  three.  .  .  ." 
"  Blimy!  "  says  I,  **  I've  a  nipper,  too." 
ii8 


MY  PRISONER 

Straight  I  chucks  my  rifle  to  one  side ; 
Shows  'im  wiv  a  lovin'  farther's  pride 
Me  own  little  Mary  Jane. 
Proud  'e  shows  me  'is  Elaine, 
And  we  talks  as  friendly  as  can  be ; 
Then  I  'elps  'im  on  'is  way, 
'Opes  'e's  sife  at  'ome  to-day, 
Wonders  — ^ow  would  'e  'ave  treated  mef 


119 


TRI-COLOUR 

Poppies,  you  try  to  tell  me,  glowing  there  in  the 

wheat ; 
Poppies  I    Ah  no !    You  mock  me :    It's  blood, 

I  tell  you,  it's  blood. 
It's  gleaming  wet  in  the  grasses;  it's  glist'nlng 

warm  in  the  wheat; 
It  dabbles  the  ferns  and  the  clover;  it  brims  in 

an  angry  flood; 
It  leaps  to  the  startled  heavens ;  it  smothers  the 

sun ;  it  cries 
With  scarlet  voices  of  triumph  from  blossom  and 

bough  and  blade. 
See  the  bright  horror  of  it!     It's  roaring  out 

of  the  skies, 
And   the   whole   red   world   is   a-welter.  .  .  . 

O  God  1     Fm  afraid !     I'm  afraid ! 

Cornflowers,  you  say,  just  cornflowers,  gemming 
the  golden  grain; 

Ah  no!  You  can't  deceive  me.  Can't  I  be- 
lieve my  eyes  ? 

Look !  It's  the  dead,  my  comrades,  stark  on  the 
dreadful  plain, 

I20 


TRI-COLOUR 

All  in  their  dark-blue  blouses,  staring  up  at  the 
skies. 

Comrades  of  canteen  laughter,  dumb  in  the  yel- 
low wheat. 

See  how  they  sprawl  and  huddle  I  See  how  their 
brows  are  white ! 

Goaded  on  to  the  shambles,  there  in  death  and 
defeat.  .  .  . 

Father  of  Pity,  hide  them!  Hasten,  O  God, 
Thy  night ! 

Lilies  (the  light  is  waning) ,  only  lilies  you  say. 
Nestling   and  softly   shining  there   where   the 

spear-grass  waves. 
No,  my  friend,  I  know  better ;  brighter  I  see  than 

day: 
It's  the  poor  little  wooden  crosses  over  their 

quiet  graves. 
Oh,    how   they're    gleaming,    gleaming!     See! 

Each  cross  has  a  crown. 
Yes,  It's  true  I  am  dying;  little  will  be  the 

loss.  .  .  . 
Darkness  .  .  .  but  look!     In  Heaven  a  light, 

and  it's  shining  down.  .  .  . 
God's  accolade !     Lift  me  up,  friends.     I'm  go- 
ing to  win  —  my  Cross. 

121 


A  POT  OF  TEA 

You  make  it  In  your  mess-tin  by  the  brazier's 

rosy  gleam; 
You  watch  It  cloud,  then  settle  amber  clear; 
You  lift  it  with  your  bay'nit,  and  you  sniff  the 

fragrant  steam; 
The  very  breath  of  It  Is  ripe  with  cheer. 
You're  awful  cold  and  dirty,  and  a-cursin'  of 

your  lot; 
You  scoff  the  blushln'  'alf  of  it,  so  rich  and  rlp- 

pln'  'ot; 
It  bucks  you  up  like  anythink,  just  seems  to  touch 

the  spot: 
God  bless  the  man  that  first  discovered 

Tea! 

Since  I  came  out  to  fight  in  France,  which  ain't 

the  other  day, 
I  think  I've  drunk  enough  to  float  a  barge ; 
All  kinds  of  fancy  foreign  dope,  from  caffy  and 

doo  lay. 
To  rum  they  serves  you  out  before  a  charge. 

122 


A  POT  OF  TEA 

In  back  rooms  of  estamlnays  I've  gurgled  pints 

of  cham; 
IVe  swilled  down  mugs  of  cider  till  IVe  felt  a 

bloomin'  dam; 
But  'struth !  they  all  ain't  in  it  with  the  vintage 

of  Assam: 
God  bless  the  man  that  first  invented  Tea ! 

I  think  them  lazy  lumps  o'  gods  wot  kips  on  as- 
phodel 

Swigs  nectar  that's  a  flavour  of  Oolong; 

I  only  wish  them  sons  o'  guns  a-griUin'  down  in 
'ell 

Could  'ave  their  daily  ration  of  Suchong. 

Hurrah!     I'm  off  to  battle,  which  is  'ell  and 
'eaven  too; 

And  if  I  don't  give  some  poor  bloke  a  sexton's 
job  to  do, 

To-night,  by  Fritz's  campfire,  won't  I  'ave  a  gor- 
geous brew 
(For  fightin'  mustn't  interfere  with  Tea). 

To-night  we'll  all  be  tellin'  of  the  Boches  that 
we  slew, 
As  we  drink  the  giddy  victory  in  Tea. 


123 


THE  REVELATION 

The  same  old  sprint  in  the  morning,  hoys,  to  the 

same  old  din  and  smut; 
Chained  all  day  to  the  same  old  desk,  down  in 

the  same  old  rut; 
Posting  the  same  old  greasy  hooks,  catching  the 

same  old  train: 
Oh,  how  will  I  manage  to  stick  it  all,  if  I  ever 

get  hack  again? 

WeVe  bidden  good-bye  to  life  in  a  cage,  we're 

finished  with  pushing  a  pen; 
They're  pumping  us  full  of  bellicose  rage,  they're 

showing  us  how  to  be  men. 
We're  only  beginning  to  find  ourselves;  we're 

wonders  of  brawn  and  thew ; 
But  when  we  go  back  to  our  Sissy  jobs, —  oh, 

what  are  we  going  to  do? 

For  shoulders  curved  with  the  counter  stoop  will 

be  carried  erect  and  square; 
And  faces  white  from  the  office  light  will  be 

bronzed  by  the  open  air; 
124 


THE  REVELATION 

And  we'll  walk  with  the  stride  of  a  new-born 
pride,  with  a  new-found  joy  in  our  eyes, 

Scornful  men  who  have  diced  with  death  under 
the  naked  skies. 

And  when  we  get  back  to  the  dreary  grind,  and 
the  bald-headed  boss's  call, 

Don't  you  think  that  the  dingy  window-blind,  and 
the  dingier  office  wall, 

iWiU  suddenly  melt  to  a  vision  of  space,  of  vio- 
lent, flame-scarred  night? 

Then  .  .  .  oh,  the  joy  of  the  danger-thrill,  and 
oh,  the  roar  of  the  fight! 

Don't  you  think  as  we  peddle  a  card  of  pins  the 

counter  will  fade  away. 
And  again  we'll  be  seeing  the  sand-bag  rims,  and 

the  barb-wire's  misty  grey? 
As  a  flat  voice  asks  for  a  pound  of  tea,  don't  you 

fancy  we'll  hear  instead 
The  night-wund  moan  and  the  soothing  drone  of 

the  packet  that's  overhead? 

Don't  you  guess  that  the  things  we're  seeing  now 
will  haunt  us  through  all  the  years ; 

Heaven  and  hell  rolled  into  one,  glory  and  blood 
and  tears; 

125 


THE  REVELATION 

Life's  pattern  picked  with  a  scarlet  thread,  where 

once  we  wove  with  a  grey- 
To  remind  us  all  how  we  played  our  part  in  the 

shock  of  an  epic  day? 


Oh,  we're  booked  for  the  Great  Adventure  now, 
we're  pledged  to  the  Real  Romance; 

We'll  find  ourselves  or  we'll  lose  ourselves  some- 
where in  giddy  old  France; 

We'll  know  the  zest  of  the  fighter's  life ;  the  best 
that  we  have  we'll  give ; 

We'll  hunger  and  thirst;  we'll  die  .  .  .  but  first 
—  we'll  live;  by  the  gods,  we'll  live! 


We'll  breathe  free  air  and  we'll  bivouac  under 

the  starry  sky ; 
We'll  march  with  men  and  we'll  fight  with  men, 

and  we'll  see  men  laugh  and  die; 
We'll  know  such  joy  as  we  never  dreamed;  we'll 

fathom  the  deeps  of  pain : 
But  the  hardest  bit  of  it  all  will  be  —  when  we 

come  back  home  again. 


126 


THE  REVELATION 

For  some  of  us  smirk  in  a  chiffon  shop,  and  some 

of  us  teach  in  a  school; 
Some  of  us  help  with  the  seat  of  our  pants  to 

polish  an  office  stool; 
The  merits  of  somebody's  soap  or  jam  some  of 

us  seek  to  explain, 
But  all  of  us  wonder  what  we'll  do  when  we  have 

to  go  back  again. 


ia7 


GRAND-PERE 

And  so  when  he  reached  my  bed 
The  General  made  a  stand: 
**  My  brave  young  feMow,"  he  said^ 
**  I  would  shake  your  hand.'* 

So  I  lifted  my  arm,  the  right, 
With  never  a  hand  at  all; 
Only  a  stump,  a  sight 
Fit  to  appal. 

**  Well,  well.     Now  that's  too  bad ! 
That's  sorrowful  luck,"  he  said; 
"  But  there !     You  give  me,  my  lad, 
The  left  instead." 

So  from  under  the  blanket's  rim 
I  raised  and  showed  him  the  other, 
A  snag  as  ugly  and  grim 
As  its  ugly  brother. 
128 


GRAND-PERE 

He  looked  at  each  jagged  wrist; 
He  looked,  but  he  did  not  speak; 
And  then  he  bent  down  and  kissed 
Me  on  either  cheek. 

You  wonder  now  I  don't  mind 
I  hadn't  a  hand  to  offer.  .  .  . 
They  tell  me  (you  know  I'm  blind) 
^Twas  Grand-pere  J  off  re. 


129 


SON 

He  hurried  away,  young  heart  of  joy,  under  our 

Devon  skyl 
And  I  watched  him  go,  my  beautiful  boy,  and  a 

weary  woman  was  I. 
For  my  hair  is  grey,  and  his  was  gold ;  he'd  the 

best  of  his  life  to  live; 
And  rd  loved  him  so,  and  Fm  old,  Tm  old;  and 

he's  all  I  had  to  give. 


Ah  yes,  he  was  proud  »nd  twift  and  gay,  but 

oh  how  my  eyes  were  dim ! 
With  the  sun  in  his  heart  he  went  away,  but  he 

took  the  sun  with  him. 
For  look !     How  the  leaves  are  falling  now,  and 

the  winter  won't  be  long.  .  .  . 
Qh  boy,  my  boy  with  the  sunny  brow,  and  the 

lips  of  love  and  of  song  1 


130 


■ 


SON 

How  we  used  to  sit  at  the  day's  sweet  end,  we 

two  by  the  firelight's  gleam, 
And  we'd  drift  to  the  Valley  of  Let's  Pretend, 

on  the  beautiful  river  of  Dream. 
Oh  dear  little  heart !     All  wealth  untold  would 

I  gladly,  gladly  pay 
Could  I  just  for  a  moment  closely  hold  that 

golden  head  to  my  grey. 


For  I  gaze  in  the  fire,  and  I'm  seeing  there  a 

child,  and  he  waves  to  me  ; 
And  I  run  and  I  hold  him  up  in  the  air,  and  he 

laughs  and  shouts  with  glee ; 
A   little   bundle    of   love    and   mirth,    crying: 

"  Come,  Mumsie  dear!  " 
Ah  me !     If  he  called  from  the  ends  of  the  earth 

I  know  that  my  heart  would  hear. 


Yet  the  thought  comes  thrilling  through  all  my 
pain :  how  worthier  could  he  die  ? 

Yea,  a  loss  like  that  is  a  glorious  gain,  and  piti- 
ful proud  am  I. 

131 


SON 

For  Peace  must  be  bought  with  blood  and  tears, 
and  the  boys  of  our  hearts  must  pay ; 

And  so  In  our  joy  of  the  after-years,  let  us  bless 
them  every  day. 

And  though  I  know  there^s  a  hasty  grave  with  a 

poor  little  cross  at  Its  head, 
And  the  gold  of  his  youth  he  so  gladly  gave,  yet 

to  me  he'll  never  be  dead. 
And  the  sun  in  my  Devon  lane  will  be  gay,  and 

my  boy  will  be  with  me  still, 
So  I'm  finding  the  heart  to  smile  and  say :    *'  Oh 

God,  If  It  be  Thy  Willi" 


132 


THE  BLACK  DUDEEN 

Humping  it  here  in  the  dug-out, 

Sucking  me  black  dudeen, 

I'd  like  to  say  in  a  general  way. 

There's  nothing  like  Nickyteen; 

There's  nothing  like  Nickyteen,  me  boys, 

Be  it  pipes  or  snipes  or  cigars; 

So  be  sure  that  a  bloke 

Has  plenty  to  smoke. 

If  you  wants  him  to  fight  your  wars. 

When  I've  eat  my  fill  and  my  belt  Is  snug, 
I  begin  to  think  of  my  baccy  plug. 
I  whittle  a  fill  in  my  horny  palm, 
And  the  bowl  of  me  old  clay  pipe  I  cram. 
I  trim  the  edges,  I  tamp  it  down, 
I  nurse  a  light  with  an  anxious  frown ; 
I  begin  to  draw,  and  my  cheeks  tuck  in, 
And  all  my  face  is  a  blissful  grin; 
And  up  in  a  cloud  the  good  smoke  goes. 
And  the  good  pipe  glimmers  and  fades  and 
glows ; 

133 


THE  BLACK  DUDEEN 

In  its  throat  it  chuckles  a  cheery  song, 

For  I  likes  it  hot  and  I  likes  it  strong. 

Oh,  it's  good  is  grub  when  you're  feeling  hollow, 

But  the  best  of  a  meal's  the  smoke  to  follow. 

There  was  Micky  and  me  on  a  night  patrol. 

Having  to  hide  in  a  fizz-bang  hole ; 

And  sure  I  thought  I  was  worse  than  dead 

Wi'  them  crump-crumps  hustlin'  over  me  head. 

Sure  I  thought  'twas  the  dirty  spot. 

Hammer  and  tongs  till  the  air  was  hot. 

And  mind  you,  water  up  to  your  knees. 

And  cold !     A  monkey  of  brass  would  freeze. 

And  if  we  ventured  our  noses  out 

A  *'  typewriter  "  clattered  its  pills  about. 

The  field  of  glory !     Well,  I  don't  think ! 

I'd  sooner  be  safe  and  snug  in  clink. 

Then  Micky,  he  goes  and  he  cops  one  bad. 
He  always  was  having  ill-luck,  poor  lad. 
Says   he :     "  Old   chummy,   I'm   booked   right 

through ; 
Death  and  me  'as  a  wrongday  voo. 
But  .  .  .  'aven't  you  got  a  pinch  of  shag? — • 
I'd  sell  me  perishin'  soul  for  a  fag." 
And  there  he  shivered  and  cussed  his  luck, 
134 


I 


THE  BLACK  DUDEEN 

So  I  gave  him  me  old  black  pipe  to  suck. 
And  he  heaves  a  sigh,  and  he  takes  to  it 
Like  a  babby  take*  to  his  mammy's  tit; 
Like  an  infant  takes  to  his  mother's  breast 
Poor  little  Micky !  he  went  to  rest 

But  the  dawn  was  near,  though  the  night  was 

black, 
So  I  left  him  there  and  I  started  back. 
And  I  laughed  as  the  silly  old  bullets  came, 
For  the  bullet  ain't  made  wot's  got  me  name. 
Yet  some  of  'em  buzzed  onhealthily  near. 
And  one  little  blighter  just  chipped  me  ear. 
But  there !  I  got  to  the  trench  all  right, 
When  sudden  I  jumped  wi'  a  start  o'  fright, 
And  a  word  that  doesn't  look  well  in  type : 
Fd  clean  forgotten  me  old  clay  pipe. 

So  I  had  to  do  it  all  over  again. 
Crawling  out  on  that  filthy  plain. 
Through  shells  and  bombs  and  bullets  and  all  — 
Only  this  time  —  I  do  not  crawl. 
I  run  like  a  man  wot's  missing  a  train. 
Or  a  tom-cat  caught  in  a  plump  of  rain. 
I  hear  the  spit  of  a  quick-fire  gun 
Tickle  my  heels,  but  I  run,  I  run. 
135 


THE  BLACK  DUDEEN 

Through  crash  and  crackle,  and  flicker  and  flame, 
(  Oh,  the  packet  aini't  issued  wot's  got  me  name ! ) 
I  run  like  a  man  that's  no  ideer 
Of  hunting  around  for  a  sooveneer. 
I  run  bang  into  a  German  chap, 
And  he  stares  like  an  owl,  so  I  bash  his  map. 
And  just  to  show  him  that  Tm  his  boss, 
I  gives  him  a  kick  on  the  parados. 
And  I  marches  him  back  with  me  all  serene. 
With,  tucked  in  me  gub,  me  old  dudeen. 

Sitting  here  in  the  trenches 

Me  hearts  a-spUttin^  with  spleen. 

For  a  parcel  o^  lead  comes  missing  me  head, 

But  it  smashes  me  old  dudeen, 

God  blast  that  red-headed  sniper! 

ril  give  him  somethin'  to  snipe; 

Before  the  war's  through 

Just  see  how  I  do 

That  blighter  that  smashed  me  pipe. 


136 


I 


THE  LITTLE  PIOU-PIOU  * 

Oh,  some  of  us  lolled  in  the  chateau, 

And  some  of  us  slinked  in  the  slum; 

But  now  we  are  here  with  a  song  and  a  cheer 

To  serve  at  the  sign  of  the  drum. 

They  put  us  in  trousers  of  scarlet. 

In  big  sloppy  ulsters  of  blue; 

In  boots  that  are  flat,  a  box  of  a  hat. 

And  they  call  us  the  little  piou-piou, 

Piou-piou, 
The  laughing  and  quaffing  piou-piou, 
The  swinging  and  singing  piou-piou ; 
And  so  with  a  rattle  we  march  to  the  battle, 
The  weary  but  cheery  piou-piou. 

Encore  tin  petit  verre  de  vin, 
Pour  nous  mettre  en  route; 
Encore  un  petit  verre  de  vin 
Pour  nous  mettre  en  train. 

They  drive  us  head-on  for  the  slaughter; 

We  haven't  got  much  of  a  chance ; 

The  issue  looks  bad,  but  we're  awfully  glad 

To  battle  and  die  for  La  France. 

For  some  must  be  killed,  that  is  certain; 

♦The  French  "Tommy." 

137 


THE  LITTLE  PIOU-PIOU 

There's  only  one's  duty  to  do ; 

So  we  leap  to  the  fray  in  the  glorious  way 

They  expect  of  the  little  plou-plou. 

En  avant! 
The  way  of  the  gallant  pIou-pIou, 
The  dashing  and  smashing  pIou-pIou ; 
The  way  grim  and  gory  that  leads  us  to  glory 
Is  the  way  of  the  little  piou-plou. 

Allons,  enfants  de  la  Patrie, 
Le  jour  de  gloire  est  arrive. 

To-day  you  would  scarce  recognise  us, 
Such  veterans  war-wise  are  we ; 
So  grimy  and  hard,  so  calloused  and  scarred^ 
So  *'  crummy,"  yet  gay  as  can  be. 
We've  finished  with  trousers  of  scarlet, 
They're  giving  us  breeches  of  blue. 
With  a  helmet  instead  of  a  cap  on  our  head. 
Yet  still  we're  the  little  piou-piou. 
Nous  les  aurons! 
The  jesting,  unresting  piou-piou; 
The  cheering,  unfearing  piou-piou ; 
Thekeep-your-head-levelandfight-like-the-de<viI; 
The  dying,  defying  piou-piou. 

A  la  bayonette!     Jusqu^a  la  mort! 
Sonnez  la  charge,  clairons! 

138 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 

The  poppies  gleamed  like  bloody  pools  through 

cotton- woolly  mist; 
The  Captain  kept  a-lookin'  at  the  watch  upon  his 

wrist; 
And   there   we    smoked   and   squatted,    as   we 

watched  the  shrapnel  flame ; 
'Twas  wonnerful,  I'm  tellin'  you,  how  fast  them 

bullets  came. 
'Twas  weary  work  the  waiting,  though ;  I  tried 

to  sleep  a  wink, 
For  waitin'  means  a-thinkin',  and  it  doesn't  do  to 

think. 
So  I  closed  my  eyes  a  little,  and  I  had  a  niceish 

dream 
Of  a-standin'  by  a  dresser  with  a  dish  of  Devon 

cream ; 
But  I  hadn't  time  to  sample  it,  for  suddenlike  I 

woke: 
''  Come  on,  me  lads!  "  the  Captain  says,  'n  I 

climbed  out  through  the  smoke. 

We  spread  out  in  the  open :  it  was  like  a  bath  of 
lead; 

139 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 

But  the  boys  they  cheered  and  hollered  fit  to  raise 

the  bloody  dead, 
Till  a  beastly  bullet  copped  'em,  then  they  lay 

without  a  sound. 
And  it's  odd  —  we  didn't  seem  to  heed  them 

corpses  on  the  ground. 
And  I  kept  on  thinkin',  thinkin',  as  the  bullets 

faster  flew. 
How  they  picks  the  werry  best  men,  and  they  lets 

the  rotters  through; 
So  indiscriminatin'  like,  they  spares  a  man  of  sin, 
And  a  rare  lad  wots  a  husband  and  a  father  gets 

done  in. 
And  while  havin'  these  reflections  and  advancin' 

on  the  run, 
A  bullet  biffs  me  shoulder,  and  says  I :     *'  That's 

number  one." 

Well,  it  downed  me  for  a  jiffy,  but  I  didn't  lose 

me  calm. 
For  I  knew  that  I  was  needed:     I'm  a  bomber, 

so  I  am. 
I  'ad  lost  me  cap  and  rifle,  but  I  ''  carried  on  " 

because 
I  'ad  me  bombs  and  knew  that  they  was  needed^ 

so  they  was. 

140 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 

We  didn't  'ave  no  singin'  now,  nor  many  men  to 

cheer; 
Maybe  the  shrapnel  drowned  'em,  crashin'  out 

so  werry  near; 
And  the  Maxims  got  us  sideways,  and  the  bullets 

faster  flew. 
And  I  copped  one  on  me  flipper,  and  says  I: 

*'  That's  number  two." 

I  was  pleased  it  was  the  left  one,  for  I  'ad  me 

bombs,  ye  see, 
And  'twas  'ard  if  they'd  be  wasted  like,  and  all 

along  o'  me. 
And  I'd  lost  me  'at  and  rifle  —  but  I  told  you 

that  before. 
So  I  packed  me  mit  Inside  me  coat  and  *'  carried 

on  "  once  more. 
But  the  rumpus  it  was  wicked,  and  the  men  were 

scarcer  yet. 
And  I  felt  me  ginger  goin',  but  me  jaws  I  kindo 

set. 
And  we  passed  the  Boche  first  trenches,  which 

was  'eapin'  'igh  with  dead, 
And  we  started  for  their  second,  which  was  fifty 

feet  ahead; 
When  something  like  a  'ammer  smashed  me  sav- 
age on  the  knee, 

141 


h 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 

And  down  I  came  all  muck  and  blood :     Says  I : 
*'  That's  number  three." 

So  there  I  lay  all  'elpless  like,  and  bloody  sick  at 

that, 
And  worryin'  like  anythink,  because  Td  lost 

me 'at; 
And  thinkin'  of  me  missis,  and  the  partin'  words 

she  said: 
**  If  you  gets  killed,  write  quick,  oV  man,  and  tell 

me  as  you're  dead." 
And  lookin'  at  me  bunch  o'  bombs  —  that  was 

the  'ardest  blow. 
To  think  I'd  never  'ave  the  chance  to  'url  them  at 

the  foe. 
And  there  was  all  our  boys  in  front,  a-fightin' 

there  like  mad. 
And  me  as  could  'ave  'elped  'em  wiv  the  lovely 

bombs  I  'ad. 
And  so  I  cussed  and  cussed,  and  then  I  struggled 

back  again, 
Into  that  bit  of  battered  trench,  packed  solid  with 

its  slain. 

Now  as  I  lay  a-lyin'  there  and  blastin'  of  me  lot. 
And  wishin'  I  could  just  dispose  of  all  them 
bombs  I'd  got, 

142 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 

I  sees  within  the  doorway  of  a  shy,  retirin'  dug- 
out 

Six  Boches  all  a-grinnin',  and  their  Captain  stuck 
'is  mug  out ; 

And  they  'ad  a  nice  machine  gun,  and  I  twigged 
what  they  was  at; 

And  they  fixed  it  on  a  tripod,  and  I  watched  'em 
like  a  cat; 

And  they  got  it  in  position,  and  they  seemed  so 
werry  glad, 

Like  they'd  got  us  in  a  death-trap,  which,  con- 
demn their  souls!  they  'ad. 

For  there  our  boys  was  fightin'  fifty  yards  in 
front,  and  'ere 

This  lousy  bunch  of  Boches  they  'ad  got  us  in 
the  rear. 

Oh  it  set  mc  blood  a-bailin'  and  I  quite  forgot 

me  pain, 
So  I  started  crawlin',  crawlin'  OTcr  all  them 

mounds  of  slain; 
And  them  bur^ards  was  so  busy-like  they  'ad  no 

eyes  for  me. 
And  me  bleedin'  leg  was  drftggin',  bat  me  right 

arm  it  was  free.  .  .  . 
And  now  they  'ave  it  all  in  rfiapc,  and  swingin' 

sweet  and  clear; 

143 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 

And  now  they're  all  excited  like,  but  —  I  am 
drawin'  near; 

And  now  they  'ave  It  loaded  up,  and  now  they're 
takin'  aim.  .  .  . 

Rat-tat'taUtat!  Oh  here,  says  I,  is  where  I  join 
the  game. 

And  my  right  arm  it  goes  swinging  and  a  bomb  it 
goes  a-sllngin', 

And  that  "  typewriter  "  goes  wingin'  in  a  thun- 
derbolt of  flame. 

Then  these  Boches,  wot  was  left  of  'em,  they 

tumbled  down  their  'ole, 
And  up  I  climbed  a  mound  of  dead,  and  down 

on  them  I  stole. 
And  oh  that  blessed  moment  when  I  heard  their 

frightened  yell, 
And  I   laughed  down  in  that  dug-out,   ere  I 

bombed  their  souls  to  hell. 
And  now  I'm  in  the  hospital,  surprised  that  I'm 

alive ; 
We  started  out  a  thousand  men,  we  came  back 

thirty-five. 
And  I'm  minus  of  a  trotter,  but  I'm  most  amazin' 

gay, 

For  me  bombs  they  wasn't  wasted,  though,  you 
might  say,  **  thrown  away." 
144 


THE  WHISTLE  OF  SANDY 
McGRAW 

You  may  talk  o'  your  lutes  and  your  dulcimers 

fine, 
Your  harps  and  your  tabors  and  cymbals  and  a', 
But  here  in  the  trenches  jist  gie  me  for  mine 
;The  wee  penny  whistle  o'  Sandy  McGraw. 
Oh,  it's :     "  Sandy,  ma  lad,  will  you  lilt  us  a 

tune?" 
And  Sandy  is  willin'  and  trillin'  like  mad; 
Sae  silvery  sweet  that  we  a'  throng  aroun', 
And  some  o'  it's  gay,  but  the  maist  o'  it's  sad. 
Jist  the  wee  simple  airs  that  sink  intae  your 

hert. 
And  grup  ye  wi'  love  and  wi'  longin'  for  hame ; 
And  ye  glour  like  an  owl  till  you're  feelin'  the 

stert 
O'  a  tear,  and  you  blink  wi'  a  feelin'  o'  shame. 
For  his  song's  o'  the  heather,  and  here  in  the 

dirt 
You  listen  and  dream  o'  a  land  that's  sae  braw, 
145 


WHISTLE  OF  SANDY  MC  GRAW 

And  he  mak's  you  forget  a'  the  harm  and  the 

hurt, 
For  he  pipes  like  a  laverock,  does  Sandy  Mc- 

Graw. 

At  Eepers  I  mind  me  when  rank  upon  rank 
We  rose  from  the  trenches  and  swept  like  the 

gale. 
Till  the  rapid-fire  guns  got  us  fell  on  the  flank 
And  the  murderin'  bullets  came  swishin'  like 

hall : 
Till  a'  that  were  left  o'  us  faltered  and  broke ; 
Tin  It  seemed  for  a  moment  a  panicky  rout, 
When  shrill  through  the  fume  and  the  flash  and 

the  smoke 
The  wee  valiant  voice  o'  a  whistle  piped  out. 
The  Campbells  are  Comin\'     Then  Into  the 

fray 
We  bounded  wi'  bayonets  reekin'  and  raw. 
And  oh  we  fair  revelled  In  glory  that  day, 
Jist  thanks  to  the  whistle  o'  Sandy  McGraw. 

At  Loose,  It  wis  after  a  sconnersome  fecht. 
On  the  field  o'  the  slain  I  wis  crawlln'  aboot ; 
And  the  rockets  were  burnin'  red  holes  In  the 
nicht ; 

146 


WHISTLE  OF  SANDY  MC  GRAW 

And  the  guns  they  were  veciously  thunderin'' 

oot; 
When  sudden  I  heard  a  bit  sound  like  a  sigh, 
And  there  in  a  crump-hole  a  kiltie  I  saw : 
**  Whit  ails  ye,  ma  lad?     Are  ye  woundit?'^ 

says  I. 
"  I've  lost  ma  wee  whustle/'  says  Sandy  Mc- 

Graw. 
"  'Twas  oot  by  yon  bing  where  we  pressed  the 

attack, 
It  drapped  frae  ma  pooch,  and  between  noo 

and  dawn 
There    isna    much   time    so    I'm   jist   crawlln*" 

back.  ..." 
"  Ye're  daft,  man!  "  I  telt  him,  but  Sandy  wis 

gone. 


Weel,    I   waited  a   wee,   then   I   crawled   oot 

masel. 
And  the  big  stuff  wis  gorin'  and  roarin'  around, 
And  I  seemed  tae  be  under  the  oxter  o'  hell. 
And  Creation  wis  crackin'  tae  bits  by  the  sound. 
And  I  says  in  ma  mind:     "  Gang  ye  back,  ye 

auld  fule!" 

147 


WHISTLE  OF  SANDY  MC  GRAW 

When  I  thrilled  tae  a  note  that  wis  saucy  and 

sma'; 
And  there  in  a  crater,  collected  and  cool, 
Wi'  his  wee  penny  whistle  wis  Sandy  McGraw. 
Ay,  there  he  wis  playin'  as  gleg  as  could  be. 
And  listenin'  hard  wis  a  spectacled  Boche; 
Then  Sandy  turned  roon'  and  he  noddit  tae 

me, 
And  he  says :     **  Dinna  blab  on  me,  Sergeant 

McTosh. 
The  auld  chap  Is  deein'.     He  likes  me  tae  play. 
It's  makin'  him  happy.     Jist  see  his  een  shine !  " 
And  thrillin'  and  sweet  in  the  hert  o'  the  fray 
Wee   Sandy  wis   playin'    The   Watch   on   the 

Rhine. 


The  last  scene  o'  a' — 'twas  the  day  that  we 

took 
That  bit  o'  black  ruin  they  ca'  Labbiesell. 
It  seemed  the  hale  hillside  jist  shivered  and 

shook, 
And  the  red  skies  were  roarin'  and  spewin'  oot 

shell. 
And  the  Sergeants  were  cursin'  tae  keep  us 

in  hand, 

148 


WHISTLE  OF  SANDY  MC  GRAW 

And  hard  on  the  leash  we  were  strainin'  like 

dugs, 
When  upward  we  shot  at  the  word  o'  com- 
mand, 
And  the  bullets  were  dingin'  their  songs  In  oor 

lugs. 
And  onward  we  swept  wi'  a  yell  and  a  cheer, 
And  a'  wis  destruction,  confusion  and  din. 
And  we  knew  that  the  trench  o'  the  Boches  wis 

near, 
And  It  seemed  jlst  the  safest  bit  hole  tae  be  in. 
So  we  a'  tumbled  doon,  and  the  Boches  were 

there. 
And  they  held  up  their  hands,  and  they  yelled : 

''Kamarad!" 
And  I  merched  aff  wI'  ten,  wI'  their  palms  In 

the  air. 
And  my!     I  wis  prood-like,  and  my!     I  wis 

glad. 
And  I  thocht:  if  ma  lassie  could  see  me  jlst 

then.  .  .  . 
When  sudden  I  sobered  at  somethin'  I  saw, 
And  I  stopped  and  I  stared,  and  I  halted  ma 

men. 
For  there  on  a  stretcher  wis  Sandy  McGraw. 


149 


WHISTLE  OF  SANDY  MC  GRAW 

Weel,  he  looks  in  ma  face,  jlst  as  game  as  ye 

please : 
"Ye  ken  hoo  I  hate  tae  be  workin',"  says  he; 
"  But  noo  I  can  play  in  the  street  for  bawbees, 
Wi'  baith  o'  ma  legs  taken  aff  at  the  knee." 
And  though  I  could  see  he  wis  rackit  wi'  pain, 
He    reached    for   his   whistle    and   stertit   tae 

play; 
And  quaverin'  sweet  wis  the  pensive  refrain: 
The  floors  o^  the  forest  are  a*  wede  away. 
Then   sudden   he   stoppit:   "Man,    wis   it   no 

grand 
Hoo    we    took  a'    them    trenches?"  .  .  .  He 

shakit  his  held : 

"  ril  —  no  —  play  —  nae  —  mair "     feebly 

doon  frae  his  hand 
Slipped  the  wee  penny  whistle  and  —  Sandy  wis 

deid. 


And  so  you  may  talk  o'  your  Steinways  and 

Strads, 
Your  wonderful  organs  and  brasses  sae  braw; 
But  oot  in  the  trenches  jist  gie  me,  ma  lads. 
Yon  wee  penny  whistle  o'  Sandy  McGraw. 
150 


THE  STRETCHER-BEARER 

My  stretcher  is  one  scarlet  stain, 
And  as  I  tries  to  scrape  it  clean, 
I  tell  you  wot  —  I'm  sick  with  pain 
For  all  I've  'eard,  for  all  IVe  seen; 
Around  me  is  the  'ellish  night. 
And  as  the  war's  red  rim  I  trace, 
I  wonder  if  in  'Eaven's  height. 
Our  God  don't  turn  away  'Is  Face. 

I  don't  care  'oose  the  Crime  may  be; 

I  'olds  no  brief  for  kin  or  clan; 

I  'ymns  no  'ate :  I  only  see 

As  man  destroys  his  brother  man; 

I  waves  no  flag:  I  only  know. 

As  'ere  beside  the  dead  I  wait, 

A  million  'earts  is  weighed  with  woe, 

A  million  'omes  is  desolate. 

In  drippin'  darkness,  far  and  near. 
All  night  I've  sought  them  woeful  ones. 
151 


THE  STRETCHER-BEARER 

Dawn  shudders  up  and  still  I  'ear 

The  crimson  chorus  of  the  guns. 

Lookl  like  a  ball  of  blood  the  sun 

'Angs  o'er  the  scene  of  wrath  and  wrong.  . 

"Quick!     Stretcher-bearers  on  the  run!" 

O  Prince  of  Peace!     'Ow  long,  *ow  long? 


isa 


WOUNDED 

Is  it  not  strange?     A  year  ago  to-day, 

With  scarce  a  thought  beyond  the  hum-drum 

round, 
I  did  my  decent  job  and  earned  my  pay; 
Was  averagely  happy,  I'll  be  bound. 
Ay,  in  my  little  groove  I  was  content, 
Seeing  my  life  run  smoothly  to  the  end. 
With  prosy  days  in  stolid  labour  spent, 
And  jolly  nights,  a  pipe,  a  glass,  a  friend. 
In  God's  good  time  a  hearth  fire's  cosy  gleam, 
A  wife  and  kids,  and  all  a  fellow  needs; 
When  presto !  like  a  bubble  goes  my  dream : 
I  leap  upon  the  Stage  of  Splendid  Deeds. 
I  yell  with  rage;  I  wallow  deep  in  gore: 
I,  that  was  clerk  in  a  drysalter's  store. 


Stranger  than  any  book  I've  ever  read. 
Here  on  the  reeking  battlefield  I  lie, 
Under  the  stars,  propped  up  with  smeary  dead, 
153 


WOUNDED 

Like  too,  if  no  one  takes  me  in,  to  die. 

Hit  on  the  arms,  legs,  liver,  lungs  and  gall ; 

Damn  glad  there's  nothing  more  of  me  to  hit; 

But  calm,  and  feeling  never  pain  at  all, 

And  full  of  wonder  at  the  turn  of  it. 

For  of  the  dead  around  me  three  are  mine, 

Three  foemen  vanquished  in  the  whirl  of  fight; 

So  if  I  die  I  have  no  right  to  whine, 

I  feel  IVe  done  my  little  bit  all  right. 

I  don't  know  how  —  but  there  the  beggars  are, 

As  dead  as  herrings  pickled  in  a  jar. 


And  here  am  I,  worse  wounded  than  I  thought; 

For  in  the  fight  a  bullet  bee-like  stings; 

You  never  heed;  the  air  is  metal-hot. 

And  all  alive  with  little  flicking  wings. 

But  on  you  charge.     You  see  the  fellows  fall; 

Your  pal  was  by  your  side,  fair  fighting-mad; 

You  turn  to  him,  and  lo !  no  pal  at  all; 

You  wonder  vaguely  if  he's  copped  it  bad. 

But  on  you  charge.     The  heavens  vomit  death; 

And  vicious  death  is  besoming  the  ground. 

You're  blind  with  sweat;  you're  dazed,  and  out 

of  breath. 
And  though  you  yell,  you  cannot  hear  a  sound. 
154 


I 


WOUNDED 

But  on  you  charge.     Oh,  War's  a  rousing  game ! 

Around  you  smoky  clouds  like  ogres  tower; 

■The  earth  is  rowelled  deep  with  spurs  of  flame, 

And  on  your  helmet  stones  and  ashes  shower. 

But  on  you  charge.     It's  odd!     You  have  no 
fear. 

Machine-gun  bullets  whip  and  lash  your  path; 

Red,  yellow,  black  the  smoky  giants  rear; 

The  shrapnel  rips,  the  heavens  roar  in  wrath. 

But  on  you  charge.     Barbed  wire  all  trampled 
down. 

The  ground  all  gored  and  rent  as  by  a  blast; 

Grim  heaps  of  grey  where  once  were  heaps 
of  brown; 

A  ragged  ditch  —  the  Hun  first  line  at  last. 

All  smashed  to  hell.     Their  second  right  ahead. 

So  on  you  charge.     There's  nothing  else  to  do. 

More  reeking  holes,  blood,  barbed  wire,  grue- 
some dead; 

(Your   puttee   strap's  undone  —  that  worries 
you). 

You  glare  around.     You  think  you're  all  alone. 

But  no;   your   chums   come   surging  left   and 
right. 

The  nearest  chap  flops  down  without  a  groan, 

His  face  still  snarling  with  the  rage  of  fight. 
155 


WOUNDED 

Ha!  here's  the  second  trench  —  just  like  the 
first, 

Only  a  little  more  so,  more  *'  laid  out " ; 

More  pounded,  flame-corroded,  death-accurst; 

A  pretty  piece  of  work,  beyond  a  doubt. 

Now  for  the  third,  and  there  your  job  is  done. 

So  on  you  charge.     You  never  stop  to  think. 

Your  cursed  puttee's  trailing  as  you  run; 

You  feel  you'd  sell  your  soul  to  have  a  drink. 

The  acrid  air  is  full  of  cracking  whips. 

You  wonder  how  it  is  you're  going  still. 

You  foam  with  rage.     Oh,  God !  to  be  at  grips 

With   someone  you   can  rush  and  crush   and 
kill. 

Your  sleeve  Is  dripping  blood;  you're  seeing 
red; 

You're  battle-mad;  your  turn  is  coming  now. 

See!   there's  the  jagged  barbed  wire  straight 
ahead. 

And  there's  the  trench  —  you'll  get  there  any- 
how. 

Your  puttee  catches  on  a  strand  of  wire, 

And  down  you  go;  perhaps  it  saves  your  life. 

For  over  sandbag  rims  you  see  'em  fire. 

Crop-headed    chaps,    their    eyes    ablaze    with 
strife. 

156 


WOUNDED 

lYou  crawl,  you  cower;  then  once  again  you 

plunge 
iWith  all  your  comrades  roaring  at  your  heels. 
Have  at  ^em,  lads!     You  stab,  you  jab,  you 

lunge ; 
A  blaze  of  glory,  then  the  red  world  reels. 
A  crash  of  triumph,  then  .  .  .  you're  faint  a 

bit  .  .  . 
That  cursed  puttee  I     Now  to  fasten  it.  .  .  . 


Well,  that's  the  charge.     And  now  I'm  here 

alone. 
I've  built  a  little  wall  of  Hun  on  Hun, 
To  shield  me  from  the  leaden  bees  that  drone 
(It  saves  me  worry,  and  it  hurts  'em  none). 
The  only  thing  I'm  wondering  is  when 
Some  stretcher-men  will  stroll  along  my  way? 
It  isn't  much  that's  left  of  me,  but  then 
Where  life  is,  hope  is,  so  at  least  they  say. 
Well,  if  I'm  spared  I'll  be  the  happy  lad. 
I  tell  you  I  won't  envy  any  king. 
I've  stood  the  racket,  and  I'm  proud  and  glad; 
I've  had  my  crowning  hour.     Oh,  War's  the 

thing ! 


157 


WOUNDED 

It  gives  us  common,  working  chaps  our  chance, 
A  taste  of  glory,  chivalry,  romance. 

Ay,  War,  they  say,  is  hell;  it's  heaven,  too. 

It  lets  a  man  discover  what  he's  worth. 

It  takes  his  measure,  shows  what  he  can  do. 

Gives  him  a  joy  like  nothing  else  on  earth. 

It  fans  in  him  a  flame  that  otherwise 

Would  flicker  out,  these  drab,  discordant  days; 

It  teaches  him  in  pain  and  sacrifice 

Faith,  fortitude,  grim  courage  past  all  praise. 

Yes,  War  is  good.     So  here  beside  my  slain, 

A  happy  wreck  I  wait  amid  the  din ; 

For  even  if  I  perish  mine's  the  gain.  .  .  . 

Hi,  there,  you  fellows!     Won^t  you  take  me 

in? 
Give  me  a  fag  to  smoke  upon  the  way.  .  .  . 
We've  taken  La  Boiselle!     The  hell,  you  say! 
Well,   that  would  make   a  corpse  sit  up  and 

grin.  .  .  . 
Lead  on!     I'll  live  to  fight  another  day. 


158 


FAITH 

Since  all  that  is  was  ever  bound  to  be; 
Since  grim,  eternal  laws  our  Being  bind; 
And  both  the  riddle  and  the  answer  find, 
And  both  the  carnage  and  the  calm  decree ; 
Since  plain  within  the  Book  of  Destiny 
Is  written  all  the  journey  of  mankind 
Inexorably  to  the  end;  since  blind 
And  mortal  puppets  playing  parts  are  we : 


Then  let's  have  faith;  good  cometh  out  of  ill; 
The  power  that  shaped  the  strife  shall  end  the 

strife; 
Then  let's  bow  down  before  the  Unknown  Will; 
Fight  on,  believing  all  is  well  with  life; 
Seeing  within  the  worst  of  War's  red  rage 
The  gleam,  the  glory  of  the  Golden  Age. 


159 


THE  COWARD 

'Ave  you  seen  BilPs  mug  in  the  Noos  to-day? 
'E's  gyned  the  Victorlar  Cross,  they  say; 
Little  Bill  wot  would  grizzle  and  run  away, 

If  you  'it  'im  a  swipe  on  the  jawr. 
'E's  slaughtered  the  Kaiser's  men  in  tons; 
'E's  captured  one  of  their  quick-fire  guns, 
And  'e  'adn't  no  practice  in  killin'  'Uns 

Afore  'e  went  off  to  the  war. 

Little  Bill  wot  I  nussed  in  'is  by-by  clothes; 
Little  Bill  wot  told  me  'is  childish  woes; 
'Ow  often  I've  tidied  'is  pore  little  nose 

Wiv  the  'em  of  me  pinnyfore. 
And  now  all  the  papers  'is  praises  ring, 
And  'e's  been  and  'e's  shaken  the  'and  of 

the  King 
And  I  sawr  'im  to-day  in  the  ward,  pore 

thing, 
Where    they're    patchin'    'im    up    once 

more. 


i6o 


THE  COWARD 

And  'e  says:     ''Wot  d'ye  think  of  it,  Lizer 

Ann?" 
And  I  says :     "  Well,  I  can't  make  it  out,  old 

man; 
You'd  'ook  it  as  soon  as  a  scrap  began, 

When  you  was  a  bit  of  a  kid." 
And  'e  whispers :     "  'Ere,  on  the  quiet,  Liz, 
They're  makin'  too  much  of  the  'ole  damn  biz, 
And  the  papers  is  printin'  me  ugly  phiz. 

But  .  .  .  I'm  'anged  if  I  know  wot  I  did. 

"  Oh,  the  Captain  comes  and  'e  says :     '  Look 

'ere! 
They're  far  too  quiet  out  there :  it's  queer. 
They're  up  to  somethin' — 'oo'U  volunteer 

To  crawl  in  the  dark  and  see  ? ' 
Then  I  felt  me  'eart  like  a  'ammer  go. 
And  up  jumps  a   chap   and  'e   says :     '  Right 

or 

But  I  chips  in  straight,  and  I  says  '  Oh  no ! 
'E's  a  missis  and  kids  —  take  me.' 

"  And  the  next  I  knew  I  was  sneakin'  out. 
And  the  oozy  corpses  was  all  about. 
And  I  felt  so  scared  I  wanted  to  shout, 
And  me  skin  fair  prickled  wiv  fear; 
i6i 


THE  COWARD 

And  I  sez:     VYou  coward!     You  'ad  no 

right 
To  take  on  the  job  of  a  man  this  night,' 
Yet  still  I  kept  creepin'  till  ('orrid  sight!) 
The  trench  of  the  'Uns  was  near. 

*'  It  was  all  so  dark,  it  was  all  so  still; 
Yet  somethin'  pushed  me  against  me  will; 
'Ow  I  wanted  to  turn !     Yet  I  crawled  until 

I  was  seein'  a  dim  light  shine. 
Then  thinks  I :     '  I'll  just  go  a  little  bit, 
And  see  wot  the  doose  I  can  make  of  it,' 
And  it  seemed  to  come  from  the  mouth  of  a  pit: 

*  Christmas !  '  sez  I,  '  a  mine  J 

**  Then  'ere's  the  part  wot  I  can't  explain: 

I  wanted  to  make  for  'ome  again. 

But  somethin'  was  blazin'  inside  me  brain, 

So  I  crawled  to  the  trench  instead; 
Then  I  saw  the  bullet  'ead  of  a  'Un, 
And  'e  stood  by  a  rapid-firer  gun. 
And  I  lifted  a  rock  and  I  'it  'im  one. 

And  'e  dropped  like  a  chunk  o'  lead. 

**  Then  all  the  'Uns  that  was  underground, 
Comes  up  with  a  rush  and  on  with  a  bound, 
162 


THE  COWARD 

And  I  swings  that  giddy  old  Maxim  round 

And  belts  'em  solid  and  square. 
You  see  I  was  off  me  chump  wiv  fear : 
*  If  Tm  sellin'  me  life/  sez  I,  '  it's  dear.' 
And  the  trench  was  narrow  and  they  was 
near, 
So  I  peppered  the  brutes  for  fair. 

*'  So  I  'eld  'em  back  and  I  yelled  wiv  fright, 
And  the  boys  attacked  and  we  'ad  a  fight, 
And  we  '  captured  a  section  o'  trench  '   that 
night 

Which  we  didn't  expect  to  get; 
And  they  found  me  there  with  me  Maxim  gun, 
And  I'd  laid  out  a  score  if  I'd  laid  out  one. 
And  I  fainted  away  when  the  thing  was  done, 

And  I  'aven't  got  over  it  yet." 

So  that's  the  'istory  Bill  told  me. 
Of  course  it's  all  on  the  strict  Q.  pT.; 
It  wouldn't  do  to  get  out,  you  see. 

As  'e  hacted  against  'is  will. 
But  'e's  convalescin'  wiv  all  'is  might, 
And  'e  'opes  to  be  fit  for  another  fight  — 
Say!     Ain't  'e  a  bit  of  the  real  all  right? 

Wot's  the  matter  with  Bill! 
163 


MISSIS  MORIARTY'S  BOY 

Missis  Moriarty  called  last  week,  and  says  she 

to  me,  says  she: 
"  Sure  the  heart  of  me's  broken  entirely  now  — 

it's  the  fortunate  woman  you  are; 
You've  still  got  your  DInnis  to  cheer  up  your 

home,  but  me  Patsy  boy  where  is  he? 
Lyin'  alone,  cold  as  a  stone,  kilt  in  the  weariful 

wahr. 
Oh,  I'm  seein'  him  now  as  I  looked  on  him 

last,  wid  his  hair  all  curly  and  bright, 
And  the  wonderful,  tenderful  heart  he  had,  and 

his  eyes  as  he  wint  away, 
Shinin'  and  lookin'  down  on  me  from  the  pride 

of  his  proper  height: 
Sure  I'll  remember  me  boy  like  that  if  I  live 

to  me  dyin'  day." 

And  just  as  she  spoke  them  very  same  words 
me  Dinnis  came  in  at  the  door. 

Came  in  from  McGonigle's  ould  shebeen,  came 
in  from  drinkin'  his  pay; 

And  Missis  Moriarty  looked  at  him,  and  she 
didn't  say  anny  more, 
164 


MISSIS  MORIARTY'S  BOY 

But  she  wrapped  her  head  In  her  ould  black 

shawl,  and  she  quietly  wint  away. 
And  what  was  I  thinkin',  I  ask  ye  now,  as  I 

put  me  Dinnis  to  bed, 
Wid  him  ravin'  and  cursin'  one  half  of  the 

night,  as  cold  by  his  side  I  sat; 
Was  I  thinkin'  the  poor  ould  woman  she  was 

wid  her  Patsy  slaughtered  and  dead? 
Was  I  weepin'  for  Missis  Moriarty?     Fm  not 

so  sure  about  that. 

Missis  Moriarty  goes  about  wid  a  shinin'  look 

on  her  face; 
Wid  her  grey  hair  under  her  ould  black  shawl, 

and  the  eyes  of  her  mother-mild; 
Some  say  she's  a  little  bit  off  her  head;  but 

annyway  it's  the  case, 
Her  timper's  so  swate  that  you  niwer  would  tell 

she'd  be  losin'  her  only  child. 
And  I  think,  as  I  wait  up  ivery  night  for  me 

Dinnis  to  come  home  blind, 
And  I'm  hearin'  his  stumblin'  foot  on  the  stair 

along  about  half-past  three : 
Sure  there's  many  a  way  of  breakin'  a  heart,  and 

I  haven't  made  up  me  mind  — 
Would  I  be  Missis  Moriarty,  or  Missis  Mori- 
arty me  ? 

i6s 


MY  FOE 

A  Belgian  Priest-Soldier  Speaks:  — 

Gurr!     You  cochon!     Stand  and  fight! 
Show  your  mettle!     Snarl  and  bite! 
Spawn  of  an  accursed  race, 
Turn  and  meet  me  face  to  face ! 
Here  amid  the  wreck  and  rout 
Let  us  grip  and  have  It  out ! 
Here  where  ruins  rock  and  reel 
Let  us  settle,  steel  to  steel ! 
Look!     Our  houses,  how  they  spit 
Sparks  from  brands  your  friends  have  lit. 
See!     Our  gutters  running  red, 
Bright  with  blood  your  friends  have  shed. 
Hark!     Amid  your  drunken  brawl 
How  our  maidens  shriek  and  call. 
Why  have  you  come  here  alone, 
To  this  hearth's  blood-spattered  stone? 
Come  to  ravish,  come  to  loot, 
Come  to  play  the  ghoulish  brute. 
i66 


MY  FOE 

Ah,  indeed!     We  well  are  met, 

Bayonet  to  bayonet. 

God!     I  never  killed  a  man: 

Now  ril  do  the  best  I  can. 

Rip  you  to  the  evil  heart, 

Laugh  to  see  the  life-blood  start. 

Bah!     You  swine!     I  hate  you  so. 

Show  you  mercy  ?     No !  .  .  .  and  no ! 

There!     IVe  done  it.     See!     He  lies 
Death  a-staring  from  his  eyes; 
Glazing  eyeballs,  panting  breath, 
How  it's  horrible,   is   Death! 
Plucking  at  his  bloody  lips 
With  his  trembling  finger-tips; 
Choking  in  a  dreadful  way 
As  if  he  would  something  say 
In  that  uncouth  tongue  of  his.  .  .  . 
Oh,  how  horrible  Death  is! 

How  I  wish  that  he  would  die! 
So  unnerved,  unmanned  am  I. 
See !     His  twitching  face  is  white ! 
See !     His  bubbling  blood  is  bright. 
Why  do  I  not  shout  with  glee? 
167 


MY  FOE 

What  strange  spell  is  over  me  ? 
There  he  lies;  the  fight  was  fair; 
Let  me  toss  my  cap  in  air. 
Why  am  I  so  silent?     Why 
Do  I  pray  for  him  to  die  ? 
Where  is  all  my  vengeful  joy? 
Ugh  I     My  foe  is  but  a  boy. 

rd  a  brother  of  his  age 
Perished  in  the  war's  red  rage; 
Perished  in  the  Ypres  hell: 
Oh,  I  loved  my  brother  well. 
And  though  I  be  hard  and  grim, 
How  it  makes  me  think  of  him! 
He  had  just  such  flaxen  hair 
As  the  lad  that's  lying  there. 
Just  such  frank  blue  eyes  were  his. 
God!     How  horrible  war  isl 

I  have  reason  to  be  gay: 
There  is  one  less  foe  to  slay. 
I  have  reason  to  be  glad: 
Yet  —  my  foe  is  such  a  lad. 
So  I  watch  in  dull  amaze, 
See  his  dying  eyes  a-glaze, 
^      i68 


MY  FOE 

See  his  face  grow  glorified, 

See  his  hands  outstretched  and  wide 

To  that  bit  of  ruined  wall 

Where  the  flames  have  ceased  to  crawl, 

Where  amid  the  crumbling  bricks 

Hangs  a  blackened  crucifix. 


Now,  oh  now  I  understand. 
Quick  I  press  it  in  his  hand, 
Close  his  feeble  finger-tips, 
Hold  it  to  his  faltering  lips. 
As  I  watch  his  welling  blood 
I  would  stem  it  if  I  could. 
God  of  Pity,  let  him  live! 
God  of  Love,  forgive,  forgive. 


His  face  looked  strangely,  as  he  died, 
Like  that  of  One  they  crucified. 
And  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat 
I  found  a  letter;  thus  he  wrote: 
The  things  Vve  seen!     Oh,  mother  dear, 
Fm  wondering  can  God  be  here? 
To-night  amid  the  drunken  brawl 
I  saw  a  Cross  hung  on  a  wall; 
169 


MY  FOE 

I'll  seek  it  now,  and  there  alone 
Perhaps  I  may  atone,  atone.  .  .  « 

Ah  no !     'Tis  I  who  must  atone. 
No  other  saw  but  God  alone; 
Yet  how  can  I  forget  the  sight 
Of  that  face  so  woeful  white ! 
Dead  I  kissed  him  as  he  lay, 
Knelt  by  him  and  tried  to  pray; 
Left  him  lying  there  at  rest, 
Crucifix  upon  his  breast. 

Not  for  him  the  pity  be. 
Ye  who  pity,  pity  me, 
Crawling  now  the  ways  I  trod, 
Blood-guilty  in  sight  of  God. 


170 


MY  JOB 

IVe  got  a  little  job  on  'and,  the  time  is  drawin' 

nigh; 
At  seven  by  the  Captain's  watch  Fm  due  to  go 

and  do  it; 
I  wants  to  'ave  it  nice  and  neat,  and  pleasin'  to 

the  eye. 
And  I  'opes  the  God  of  soldier  men  will  see  me 

safely  through  it. 
Because,  you  see,  it's  somethin'  I  'ave  never  done 

before; 
And  till  you  'as  experience  noo  stunts  is  always 

tryin' ; 
The   chances  is   I'll  never  'ave   to  do   it  any 

more : 
At  seven  by  the  Captain's  watch  my  little  job 

is  .  .  .  dyin\ 

I've  got  a  little  note  to  write;  I'd  best  begin 

it  now. 
I  ain't  much  good  at  writin'  notes,  but  here 

goes:     *'  Dearest  Mother, 
I've  been  in  many  'ot  old  *  do's ' ;  I've  scraped 

through  safe  some'ow, 
171 


MY  JOB 

But  now  rm  on  the  very  point  of  tacklin'  an- 
other. 

A  little  job  of  hand-grenades;  they  called  for 
volunteers. 

jThey  picked  me  out;  Fm  proud  of  it;  it  seems 
a  trifle  dicky. 

If  anythin'  should  'appen,  well,  there  ain't  no 
call  for  tears, 

And  so  ...  I  'opes  this  finds  you  well. —  Your 
werry  lovin'  Micky." 

I've  got  a  little  score  to  settle  wiv  them  swine 

out  there. 
I've  'ad  so  many  of  me  pals  done  in  it's  quite 

upset  me. 
I've  seen  so  much  of  bloody  death  I  don't  seem 

for  to  care, 
If  I  can  only  even  up,  how  soon  the  blighters 

get  me. 
I'm  sorry  for  them  perishers  that  corpses  in  a 

bed; 
I  only  'opes  mine's  short  and  sweet,  no  linger- 

longer-lyin' ; 
I've  made  a  mess  of  life,  but  now  I'll  try  to 

make  instead  .  .   . 
It's  seven  sharp.     Good-bye,  old  pals!  .  .  .  a 

decent  job  in  dyin\ 
172 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  PACIFIST 

What  do  they  matter,  our  headlong  hates,  when 
we  take  the  toll  of  our  Dead? 

Think  ye  our  glory  and  gain  will  pay  for  the 
torrent  of  blood  we  have  shed? 

By  the  cheers  of  our  Victory  will  the  heart  of 
the  mother  be  comforted? 

If  by  the  Victory  all  we  mean  is  a  broken  and 

brooding  foe; 
Is  the  pomp  and  power  of  a  glitt'ring  hour,  and 

a  truce  for  an  age  or  so : 
By  the  clay-cold  hand  on  the  broken  blade  we 

have  smitten  a  bootless  blow! 

If  by  the  Triumph  we  only  prove  that  the  sword 

we  sheathe  is  bright; 
That  justice  and  truth  and  love  endure;  that 

freedom's  throned  on  the  height; 
[That  the  feebler  folks  shall  be  unafraid;  that 

Might  shall  never  be  Right; 
173 


'\ 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  PACIFIST 

If  this  be  all:  by  the  blood-drenched  plains,  by 

the  havoc  of  fire  and  fear, 
By  the  rending  roar  of  the  War  of  Wars,  by 

the  Dead  so  doubly  dear.  .  .  . 
Then  our  Victory  is  a  vast  defeat,  and  it  mocks 

us  as  we  cheer. 

Victory !  there  can  be  but  one,  hallowed  in  every 

land: 
When  by  the  graves  of  our  common  dead  we 

who  were  foemen  stand; 
.  And  in  the  hush  of  our  common  grief  hand  is 

tendered  to  hand. 

[Triumph!     Yes,  when  out  of  the  dust  in  the 

splendour  of  their  release 
The  spirits  of  those  who  fell  go  forth  and  they 

hallow  our  hearts  to  peace, 
And,  brothers  in  pain,  with  world-wide  voice, 

we  clamour  that  War  shall  cease. 

Glory!     Ay,  when  from  blackest  loss  shall  be 

born  most  radiant  gain; 
When  over  the  gory  fields  shall  rise  a  star  that 

never  shall  wane: 
174 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  PACIFIST 

Then,  and  then  only,  our  Dead  shall  know  that 
they  have  not  fall'n  in  vain. 

When  our  children's  children  shall  talk  of 
War  as  a  madness  that  may  not  be ; 

When  we  thank  our  God  for  our  grief  to-day, 
and  blazon  from  sea  to  sea 

In  the  name  of  the  Dead  the  banner  of  Peace 
.  .  .  that  will  be  Victory. 


175 


THE  TWINS 

There  were  two  brothers,  John  and  James, 
And  when  the  town  went  up  In  flames, 
To  save  the  house  of  James  dashed  John, 
[Then  turned,  and  lo !  his  own  was  gone. 

And  when  the  great  World  War  began. 
To  volunteer  John  promptly  ran ; 
And  while  he  learned  live  bombs  to  lob, 
James  stayed  at  home  and  —  sneaked  his  job* 

John  came  home  with  a  missing  limb ; 

That  didn't  seem  to  worry  him; 

But  oh,  it  set  his  brain  awhirl 

To  find  that  James  had  —  sneaked  his  girl ! 

Time  passed.     John  tried  his  grief  to  drown;: 

To-day  James  owns  one-half  the  town ; 

His  army  contracts  riches  yield; 

And  John?     Well,  search  the  Potter's  Field., 


176 


THE  SONG  OF  THE 
SOLDIER-BORN 

Give  me  the  scorn  of  the  stars  and  a  peak  de-- 
fiant; 

Wail  of  the  pines  and  a  wind  with  the  shout  of 
a  giant; 

Night  and  a  trail  unknown  and  a  heart  re- 
liant. 


Give  me  to  live  and  love  in  the  old,  bold  fashion ;; 
A  soldier's  billet  at  night  and  a  soldier's  ration ; 
A  heart  that  leaps  to  the  fight  with  a  soldier's 
passion. 


For  I  hold  as  a  simple  faith  there's  no  denying: 
The  trade  of  a  soldier's  the  only  trade  worth 

plying; 
The  death  of  a  soldier's  the  only  death  worth. 

dying. 

177 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIER-BORN 

So  let  me  go   and  leave  your  safety  behind 

me; 
Go  to  the  spaces  of  hazard  where  nothing  shall 

bind  me; 
Go  till  the  word  is  War  —  and  then  you  will 

find  me. 


Then  you  will  call  me  and  claim  me  because 

you  will  need  me; 
Cheer  me  and  gird  me  and  into  the  battle-wrath 

speed  me.  ... 
And  when  it's  over,  spurn  me  and  no  longer 

heed  me. 

For  guile   and   a  purse   gold-greased   are  the 

arms  you  carry; 
With  deeds  of  paper  you  fight  and  with  pens 

you  parry; 
You  call  on  the  hounds  of  the  law  your  foes 

to  harry. 


You  with  your  "  Art  for  its  own  sake,"  posing 

and  prinking; 
You  with  your  *'  Live  and  be  merry,''  eating 

and  drinking; 

178 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIER-BORN 

You  with  your  **  Peace  at  all  hazard/'  from 
bright  blood  shrinking. 


Fools!     I  will  tell  you  now:  though  the  red 

rain  patters, 
And  a  million  of  men  go  down,  it's  little  it 

matters.  .  .  . 
There's  the  Flag  upflung  to  the  stars,  though 

it  streams  in  tatters. 


There's  a  glory  gold  never  can  buy  to  yearn 

and  to  cry  for; 
There's  a  hope  that's  as  old  as  the  sky  to  suffer 

and  sigh  for; 
There's   a   faith  that  out-dazzles  the  sun  to 

martyr  and  die  for. 


Ah  no !  it's  my  dream  that  War  will  never  be 

ended; 
That  men  will  perish  like  men,  and  valour  be 

splendid; 
That  the  Flag  by  the  sword  will  be  served, 

and  honour  defended. 
179 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIER-BORN 

That  the  tale  of  my  fights  will  never  be  ancient 

story ; 
That  though  my  eye  may  be  dim  and  my  beard 

be  hoary, 
rU    die    as    a    soldier   dies    on   the    Field    of 

Glory. 

So  ffive  me  a  strong  right  arm  for  a  wrong^s 

swift  righting; 
Stave  of  a  song  on  my  lips  as  my  sword  is 

smiting; 
Death    in    my    boots    may-be,    but    fighting, 

fighting. 


i8o 


AFTERNOON  TEA 

As  I  was  saying  .  .  .    (No,  thank  you;  I  never 

take  cream  with  my  tea ; 
Cows  weren't  allowed  in  the  trenches  —  got  out 

of  the  habit,  y'see.) 
As  I  was  saying,  our  Colonel  leaped  up  like  a 

youngster  of  ten: 
"  Come  on,  lads !  ''  he  shouts,  *'  and  we'll  show 

'em."     And  he  sprang  to  the  head  of  the 

men. 
Prhen  some  bally  thing  seemed  to  trip  him,  and 

he  fell  on  his  face  with  a  slam.  .  .  . 
Oh,  he  died  like  a  true  British  soldier,  and  the 

last  word  he  uttered  was  ''  Damn !  " 
And  hang  it!     I   loved   the   old   fellow,   and 

something  just  burst  in  my  brain. 
And  I  cared  no  more   for  the  bullets  than  I 

would  for  a  shower  of  rain. 
'Twas  an  awf  ly  funny  sensation  (I  say,  this  is 

jolly  nice  tea)  ; 

i8i 


AFTERNOON  TEA 

I  felt  as  if  something  had  broken;  by  gad!  I 
was  suddenly  free. 

Free  for  a  glorified  moment,  beyond  regula- 
tions and  laws, 

Free  just  to  wallow  in  slaughter,  as  the  chap 
of  the  Stone  Age  was. 

So  on  I  went  joyously  nursing  a  Berserker  rage 
of  my  own, 

And  though  all  my  chaps  were  behind  me,  feel- 
ing most  frightfly  alone; 

With  the  bullets  and  shells  ding-donging,  and 
the  **  krock  ''  and  the  swish  of  the  shrap; 

And  I  found  myself  humming  **  Ben  Bolt '' 
.  .  .  (Will  you  pass  me  the  sugar,  old 
chap  ? 

Two  lumps,  please).  .  .  .  What  was  I  say- 
ing?    Oh  yes,  the  jolly  old  dash; 

We  simply  ripped  through  the  barrage,  and 
on  with  a  roar  and  a  crash. 

My  fellows  —  Old  Nick  couldn't  stop  'em. 
On,  on  they  went  with  a  yell. 

Till  they  tripped  on  the  Boches'  sand-bags, — 
nothing  much  left  to  tell: 

A  trench  so  tattered  and  battered  that  even  a 
rat  couldn't  live; 


182 


AFTERNOON  TEA 

Some  corpses  tangled  and  mangled,  wire  you 

could  pass  through  a  sieve. 
The  jolly  old  guns  had  bilked  us,  cheated  us 

out  of  our  show, 
And  my  fellows  were  simply  yearning  for  a 

red  mix-up  with  the  foe. 
So  I  shouted  to  them  to  follow,  and  on  we  went 

roaring  again. 
Battle-tuned  and  exultant,  on  in  the  leaden  rain. 
Then  all  at  once  a  machine  gun  barks  from  a 

bit  of  a  bank, 
And  our  Major  roars  in  a  fury:     '*  We've  got 

to  take  it  on  flank." 
He  was  running  like  fire  to  lead  us,  when  down 

like  a  stone  he  comes. 
As  full  of  **  typewriter  "  bullets  as  a  pudding 

is  full  of  plums. 
So  I  took  his  job  and  we  got  'em.  ...  By  gad ! 

we  got  'em  like  rats; 
Down   in   a   deep   shell-crater  we   fought  like 

Kilkenny  cats. 
'Twas  pleasant  just  for  a  moment  to  be  sheltered 

and  out  of  range. 
With  someone  you  saw  to  go  for  —  it  made 

an  agreeable  change. 


183 


AFTERNOON  TEA 

And  the  Boches  that  missed  my  bullets,   my 

chaps  gave  a  bayonet  jolt, 
And  all  the  time,  I  remember,  I  whistled  and 

hummed  ''  Ben  Bolt." 


Well,    that   little   job   was   over,    so   hell    for 

leather  we  ran. 
On  to  the  second  line  trenches, —  that's  where 

the  fun  began. 
For  though  we  had  strrJed  'em  like  fury,  there 

still  were  some  Boches  about, 
And  my  fellows,  teeth  set  and  eyes  glaring,  like 

terriers  routed  'em  out. 
Then  I  stumbled  on  one  of  their  dug-outs,  and 

I  shouted:     "Is  anyone  there?" 
And  a  voice,  "Yes,  one;  but  I'm  wounded," 

came  faint  up  the  narrow  stair; 
And  my  man  was  descending  before  me,  when 

sudden  a  cry!  a  shot! 
(I   say,   this  cake  is  delicious.     You  make  it 

yourself,  do  you  not?) 
My  man?     Oh,  they  killed  the  poor  devil;  for 

if  there  was  one  there  was  ten; 
So  after  I'd  bombed  'em  sufficient  I  went  down 

at  the  head  of  my  men, 
184 


AFTERNOON  TEA 

And  four  tried  to  sneak  from  a  bunk-hole,  but 
we  cornered  the  rotters  all  right; 

Fd  rather  not  go  Into  details,  'twas  messy  that 
bit  of  the  fight. 

But  all  of  it's  beastly  messy;  let's  talk  of  pleas- 
anter  things : 

The  skirts  that  the  girls  are  wearing,  ridicu- 
lous fluffy  things, 

So  short  that  they  show.  .  .  .  Oh,  hang  it! 
Well,  if  I  must,  I  must. 

We  cleaned  out  the  second  trench  line,  bomb 
and  bayonet  thrust ; 

And  on  we  went  to  the  third  one,  quite  cal- 
loused to  crumping  by  now; 

And  some  of  our  fellows  who'd  passed  us  were 
making  a  deuce  of  a  row; 

And  my  chaps  —  well,  I  just  couldn't  hold  'em; 
(It's  strange  how  it  is  with  gore; 

In  some  ways  it's  just  like  whiskey:  if  you 
taste  it  you  must  have  more.) 

Their  eyes  were  like  beacons  of  battle;  by  gad, 
sir !  they  couldn't  be  calmed. 

So  I  headed  'em  bang  for  the  bomb-belt,  rac- 
ing like  billy-be-damned. 

Oh,  it  didn't  take  long  to  arrive  there,  those 
who  arrived  at  all ; 

185 


AFTERNOON  TEA 

The  machine  guns  were  certainly  chronic,  the 

shindy  enough  to  appal. 
Oh  yes,  I  omitted  to  tell  you,  Fd  wounds  on 

the  chest  and  the  head, 
And  my  shirt  was  torn  to  a  gun-rag,  and  my 

face  blood-gummy  and  red. 
I'm  thinking  I  looked  like  a  madman;  I  fancy 

I  felt  one  too, 
Half  naked  and  swinging  a  rifle.  .  .  .  God! 

what  a  glorious  **  do.'' 
As  I  sit  here  in  old  Picadllly,  sipping  my  after- 
noon tea, 
I  see  a  blind,  bullet-chipped  devil,  and  it's  hard 

to  believe  that  it's  me; 
I  see  a  wild,  war-damaged  demon,   smashing 

out  left  and  right. 
And  humming  '*  Ben  Bolt  "  rather  loudly,  and 

hugely  enjoying  the  fight. 
And  as  for  my  men,  may  God  bless  'em !     I've 

loved  'em  ever  since  then: 
They   fought  like  the  shining  angels;  they're 

the  pick  o'  the  land,  my  men. 
And  the  trench  was  a  reeking  shambles,  not  a 

Boche  to  be  seen  alive  — 
So  I  thought;  but  on  rounding  a  traverse  I 

came  on  a  covey  of  five; 
i86 


AFTERNOON  TEA 

And  four  of  'em  threw  up  their  flippers,  but 

the  fifth  chap,  a  sergeant,  was  game, 
And  though  Fd  a  bomb  and  revolver  he  came 

at  me  just  the  same. 
A  sporty  thing  that,  I  tell  you;  I  just  couldn't 

blow  him  to  hell. 
So  I  swung  to  the  point  of  his  jaw-bone,  and 

down  like  a  ninepin  he  fell. 
And  then  when  I'd  brought  him  to  reason,  he 

wasn't  half  bad,  that  Hun; 
He  bandaged  my  head  and  my  short-rib  as  well 

as  the  Doc  could  have  done. 
So  back  I  went  with  my  Boches,  as  gay  as  a  two- 
year-old  colt. 
And  it  suddenly  struck  me  as  rummy,   I  still 

was  a-humming  ^'  Ben  Bolt." 
And    now,    by    Jove!    how    I've    bored    you. 

You've  just  let  me  babble  away; 
Let's  talk  of  the   things  that  matter  —  your 

car  or  the  newest  play.   .  .  . 


187 


THE  MOURNERS 

I  look  into  the  aching  womb  of  night; 
I  look  across  the  mist  that  masks  the  dead; 
The  moon  is  tired  and  gives  but  little  light, 
The  stars  have  gone  to  bed. 

The  earth  is  sick  and  seems  to  breathe  with  pain; 
A  lost  wind  whimpers  in  a  mangled  tree ; 
I  do  not  see  the  foul,  corpse-cluttered  plain, 
The  dead  I  do  not  see. 

The  slain  I  would  not  see  .  .   .  and  so  I  lift 
My  eyes  from  out  the  shambles  where  they  lie; 
When  lo !  a  million  woman-faces  drift 
Like  pale  leaves  through  the  sky. 

The  cheeks  of  some  are  channelled  deep  with 

tears; 
But  some  are  tearless,  with  wild  eyes  that  stare 
Into  the  shadow  of  the  coming  years 
Of  fathomless  despair. 


THE  MOURNERS 

And  some  are  young,  and  some  are  very  old; 
And  some  are  rich,  some  poor  beyond  belief; 
Yet  all  are  strangely  like,  set  in  the  mould 
Of  everlasting  grief. 

They  fill  the  vast  of  Heaven,  face  on  face; 
And  then  I  see  one  weeping  with  the  rest. 
Whose    eyes    beseech    me    for    a    moment's 
space.  .  .  . 
Oh  eyes  I  love  the  best ! 

Nay,  I  but  dream.     The  sky  is  all  forlorn, 
And  there's  the  plain  of  battle  writhing  red: 
God  pity  them,  the  women-folk  who  mourn! 
How  happy  are  the  dead  I 


189 


UENFOI 

My  job  is  done;  my  rhymes  are  ranked  and 

ready, 
My  word-battalions  marching  verse  by  verse; 
Here  stanza-companies  are  none  too  steady; 
There  print-platoons  are  weak,  but  might  be 

worse. 
And  as  in  marshalled  order  I  review  them, 
My  type-brigades,  unf earful  of  the  fray. 
My    eyes    that   seek    their   faults    are   seeing 

through  them 
Immortal  visions  of  an  epic  day. 


It  seems  Vm  in  a  giant  bowling-alley; 
The  hidden  heavies  round  me  crash  and  thud; 
A  spire  snaps  like  a  pipe-stem  in  the  valley; 
The  rising  sun  is  like  a  ball  of  blood. 
Along  the  road  the  ^'  fantassins  '^  are  pouring. 
And  some  are  gay  as  fire,   and  some  steeU 
stern.  ... 

190 


UENVOI 

Then  back  again  I  see  the  red  tide  pouring, 
Along  the  reeking  road  from  Hebuterne. 


And  once  again  I  seek  Hill  Sixty-Seven, 

The  Hun  lines  grey  and  peaceful  in  my  sight; 

When  suddenly  the  rosy  air  is  riven  — 

A  '^  coal'box  ^'  blots  the  *^  boyou  '^  on  my  right. 

Or  else  to  evil  Carnoy  I  am  stealing, 

Past  sentinels  who  hail  with  bated  breath; 

Where  not  a  cigarette  spark's  dim  revealing 

May  hint  our  mission  in  that  zone  of  death. 


I  see  across  the  shrapnel-seeded  meadows 
The  jagged  rubble-heap  of  La  Boiselle; 
Blood-guilty  Fricourt  brooding  in  the  shadows, 
And  ThiepvaFs  chateau  empty  as  a  shell, 
Down  Albert's  riven  streets  the  moon  is  leer- 
ing; 
The  Hanging  Virgin  takes  its  bitter  ray; 
And  all  the  road  from  Hamel  I  am  hearing 
The  silver  rage  of  bugles  over  Bray. 
191 


UENVOI 

Once    more    within    the    sky^s    deep    sapphire 

hollow 
I  sight  a  swimming  Taube,  a  fairy  thing; 
I  watch  the  angry  shell  flame  flash  and  follow 
In  feather  puffs  that  flick  a  tilted  wing; 
And    then    it    fades,    with    shrapnel    mirror^s 

flashing; 
The  flashes  bloom  to  blossoms  lily  gold; 
The  batteries  are  rancorously  crashing, 
And  life  is  just  as  full  as  it  can  hold. 

Oh  spacious  days  of  glory  and  of  grieving! 
Oh  sounding  hours  of  lustre  and  of  loss! 
Let  us  be  glad  we  lived  you,  still  believing 
The  God  who  gave  the  cannon  gave  the  Cross. 
Let  us  be  sure  amid  these  seething  passions, 
The  lusts  of  blood  and  hate  our  souls  abhor: 
The  Power  that  Order  out  of  Chaos  fashions 
Smites    fiercest    in    the    wrath-red    forge    of 

War,  .  .  . 
Have  faith!     Fight  on!     Amid  the  battle-hell 
Love  triumphs.  Freedom  beacons,  all  is  well. 


192 


